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®op^ng|l ;|o. 

‘ Shelf 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 


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FROM THE 
OTHER SIDE 



/ 


RE. Bif 

BY 

NOTLE’* 


AUTHOR OF 

“Olive Varcoe,” ETcii,^i 
Etc. V 


^ Anuiwl 8ubMrtptiw?Jw.0a Nwember «8, 1867. 




[NIeW York‘^^35! 

|oH/^ -W- loVELb (^MFANY^^^P 

•I4 & 16 VESEY STREET' 







KNITTED SUIT 

LENO 


FOR 


Misses’ and Children’s Fall and Winter Wear. 


L 

E 

N 

O 

X 


Owing to the great success during the past 
season of their Knitted Tuxedo Summer Suit, 
Messrs. Jas. McCreery 8l Co. have been led to pro- 
duce a Knitted Fall and Winter Suit for Misses and 
Children, adapted for school and out-door wear. 

This suit is made in one piece; the waist is tight- 
fitting, with a full front of jacket effect, and the 
skirt is made full, with a sash. 

The colors are the soft, warm winter Shades, 
relieved here and there with stripes of contrasting 
color. A full descriptive circular mailed on appli- 
cation. 


L 

E 

N 

O 

X 


Controlled exclusively and for sale only by 

JIMES £ go:, GROGIIWII £ IIth streh. 


POND’S 

TheWontler of Healing! 

For PILES, BURNS, MEU- 
EALaiA, DIARRHEA, 
STINGS, SORE THROAT, 
EYES, FEET, INFLAM- 
MATIONS AND HEMOR- 
RHAGES OF ALL KINDS. 

Used Internally and Externally. 

POND’S EXTRACT CO., 
76 5th Ave., New York. 



EXTRACT. 

CAUTION.— See that 
tlie words ^‘POND’S 
EXTRACT’^ are 
blown in eacb bottle, 
inclosed in a buff-col- 
ored wrapper, bear- 
ing our landscape 
trade-mar k. — none 
otber is genuine. 

Sold everywTwre. 
Price, 50c., ^1, 

POND’S EXTRACT CO., 
76 5th Ave., New York. 


HAIR 

ON THE 


Permanently Removed hy 

DR. WEST’S HAIR REMOVER. 


FACE, 

NECK, 

ARMS, 


An English Toilet Preparation, largely used by ladies in 
Europe. Guaranteed harmless to the skill ; leaves it 
soft, white and smooth ; never fails to remove the 
hair; the only toilet preparation that a lady can use 
with perfect safety. Price $1.00 per bottle. Sent 
by mail, in plain wrappers, to any address, on receipt 
of price, by 

AMERICAN DRUG GO., BOSTON, MASS. 




• ■ 


LOVELL^S LIBKART 


BY THOMAS CAMPBELL 


526 Poems 20 

BY ROSA NOUCHETE CAREY 

660 For Lilias 20 

911 Not Like other Girls 20 

912 Robert Ord’s Atonement 20 

959 Wee Wifie 20 

960 W ooed and Married 20 

BY WM. CARLETON 

m Willy Reilly ....20 

820 Shane Fadh's Wedding 10 

b21 Larry McFarland’s Wake 10 

822 The Party Fight and Funeral 10 

823 The Midnight Muss 10 

824 PhilPurcel 10 

825 An Irish Oath 10 

826 Going to Maynooth' 10 

827 Phelim O’Toole’s Courtship 10 

828 Dominick, the Poor Scholar 10 

829 Neal Malone 10 

BY THOMAS CARLYLE 

4S6 History of French Revolution, 2 

Parts, each 25 

494 Past and Present 20 

5U0 The Diamond Necklace ; and Mira- 

beau 15 

603 Chartism 20 

6''8 Sartor Resartus 20 

614 Early Kings of Norway 20 

620 Jean Paul Friedrich Richter 10 

622 Goethe, and Miscellaneous Essays. . . 1 J 

525 Life of Hey ne 15 

528 Voltaire and Novalis 15 

541 Heroes, and Hero-Worship 20 

646 Signs of the Times 15 

650 German Literature 15 

661 Portraits of John Knox 15 

671 Count Cagliostro, etc 15 

578 Frederick the Great, Vol. I 20 

680 “ “ Vol. II 20 

691 “ “ “ Vol. HI 20 

610 “ “ “ Vol. IV 20 

619 “ “ “ Vol. V 20 

(522 “ “ “ Vol. VI 20 

526 “ “ “ Vol. VII 20 

C28 “ “ Vol. VII.T 20 

6.30 Life of John Sterling 20 

633 Latter-Day Pamphlets. 20 

636 Life of Schiller 20 

613 Oliver Cromwell, Vol. 1 25 

646 “ “ Vol. II 25 

649 “ “ Vol. Ill .25 

652 Characteristics and other Essays. . . 15 

656 Corn Law Rhymes and other Essays .15 

658 Baillie the Covenanter and other Es- 
says 15 

661 Dr. Francia and other Essays 15 

BY LEWIS CARROLL 

480 Alice’s Adventures 20 

481 Through the Looking-Glass 20 

BY “ CAVENDISH’’ 

422 Cavendish Card Essays 15 

BY CERVANTES 

417 Don Quixote 30 

BY L. W. CHAMPNEY 

119 Bourbon Lilies 20 


BY VICTOR CHERBITLIEZ 


Samuel Brohl & Co 20 

BY BERTHA M. CLAY 

Her Mother’s Sin 20 

Dora Thorne 20 

Beyond Pardon 20 

A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

Repented at Leisure 20 

Sunshine and Roses 20 

The EaiTs Atonement 20 

A Woman’s Temptation iO 

Love Works Wonders 20 

Fair but False 10 

Between Two Sins 10 

At War with Herself 15 

Hilda 10 

Her Martyrdom 20 

Lord Lynn’s Choice 10 

The Shadow of a Sin 10 

Wedded and Parted 30 

In Cupid’s Net 10 

Lady Uamer’s Secret 20 

A Gilded Sin 10 

Between Two Loves 20 

For Another’s Sin 20 

Romance of a Young Girl 20 

A Queen Amongst Women 1C 

A Golden Dawn 10 

Like no Other Love 10 

A Bitter Atonement 20 

Evelyn’s Folly 2j) 

Set in Diamonds 20 

A Fair Myster 3 ' 20 

Thorns and Orange Blossoms 10 

Romance of a Black Veil 10 

Love’s Warfare 10 

Madolin’s Lover 20 

Fi’om Out the Gloom 20 

Which Loved Him Best 10 

A True Magdalen 20 

The Sin of a Lifetime 20 

Prince Charlie’s Daughter .10 

A Golden Heart 10 

Wife in Name Only 20 

A Woman’s Error 20 

Marjorie 20 

A Wilful Maid 20 

Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce 20 

Claribel’s Love Story 20 

Thrown on the World 20 

Under a Shadow 20 

A Struggle for a Ring 20 

Hilary’s Folly 20 

A Haunted Life 20 

A Woman’s Love Story 20 

A Woman’s War 20 

’Twixt Smile and Tear 20 

Lady Diana’s Pride 20 

Belle of Lynn 20 

Marjorie's Fate 20 

Sweet Cymbeline 20 

Redeemed by Love 20 

The SQuire’s Darling 10 

The Mys»/ery of Colde Fell 20 

The Shattered "'dol 10 

Letty Leigh 10 

The EaiTs Error 10 

Arnold’s Promise 10 

BY S. T. COLERIDGE 

Poems . . . 3(1 


242 

183 

277 

287 

420 

423 

458 

465 

474 

476 

558 

593 

651 

669 

689 

692 

694 

695 

700 

701 

718 

720 

727 

730 

733 

738 

739 

740 

744 

752 

764 

800 

801 

803 

804 

806 

807 

808 

809 

810 

811 

812 

816 

896 

922 

923 

926 

928 

929 

930 

932 

933 

984 

9(59 

984 

985 

986 

988 

989 

1007 

1012 

1013 

1031 

1033 

1042 

1043 

523 

a 


LOVELL'S LIBRARY 


BY WILKIE COLLINS 


8 The Moonstone. Part 1 10 

9 The Moonstone, Part TI 10 

U4 The New Mai^dalen 20 

87 Heart and Science 20 

418 “I Say No” 20 

437 Tales of Two Idle Apprentices 15 

683 The Ghost’s Touch 10 

686 My Lady’s Money 10 

7*i2 The Evil Genius 20 

839 The Guilty River 10 

957 The Dead Secret 20 

990 The Queen of Hearts 20 

1003 The Haunted Hotel r-. ... .10 

BY HUGH CONWAY 

429 Called Back 15 

462 Dark Days 15 

612 Carriston’s Gift 10 

617 Paul Vargas: a Mystery 10 

631 A Family Affair 20 

667 Story of a Sculptor 10 

672 Slings and Arrows 10 

715 A Cardinal Sin 20 

745 Living or Dead 20 

760 Somebody’s Story 10 

968 Bound by a Spell 20 


BY J. FEHIMOKE COOPEIl 


6 

53 

S65 

378 

441 

463 

467 

471 

484 

488 

491 

501 

506 

512 

517 

519 

524 

527 

529 

532 

539 

543 

548 

553 

559 

562 

570 

576 

587 

601 

603 

611 


The Last of the Mohicans 

The Spy 

The Path Inder 

Homeward Bound 

Home as Found 

The Deerslayer 

The Prairie 

The Pioneer 

The Two Admirals 

The Water- Witch 

The Red Rover 

The Pilot 

Wing and Wing 

Wyandotte 

Heidenmauer 

The Headsman 

The Bravo 

Lionel Lincoln 

Wept of Wish-ton- Wish . . 

Afloat and Ashore 

Miles Wallinerford 

The Mon i kins 

Mercedes of Castile 

The Sea Lions 

The Crater 

Oak Openings 

Satanstoe 

The Chain-Bearer 

Ways of the Hour 

Precaution 

Retiskins 

Jack Tier 


.28 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.80 

.20 

.25 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

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20 

.25 

.20 

.20 

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25 


BY KINAHAN COENWALLIS 


409 Adrift with a Vengeance 25 

BY REV. JAS. FREEMAN CLARK 

167 Anti-Slavery Days 20 


BY GEORGIANA M. CRAIK 

1006 A Daughter of the People 20 


BY R. CRISWELL 

850 Grandfather Lickehingle 24 

BY R. H. DANA, JR. 

464 Two Years before the Mast 20 

BY DANTE 

345 Dante’s Vision of Hell, Purgatory, 

and Paradise 20 

BY FLORA A. DARLING 

260 Mrs. Darling’s War Letters 20 

BY JOYCE DARRELL 

315 Winifred Power 20 

BY ALPHONSE DAUDET 

478 Tartarin of Taruscon 20 

604 Sidonie 20 

613 Jack 20 

615 The Little Good-for-Nothing 20 

645 The Nabob .25 

BY REV. C. H. DAVIES, D.D. 

453 Mystic London 20 

BY THE DEAN OF ST. PAUL’S 

431 Life of Spenser 10 

BY C. DSBANS ' 

475 A Sheep in Wolfs Clothing 20 

BY REV. C. F. DEEMS, D.D. 

704 Evolution 20 

BY DANIEL DEFOE 

428 Robinson Crusoe 25 

BY THOS. DE QUINCEY 

20 The Spanish Nun 10 

BY CHARLES DICKENS 

10 Oliver Twist 20 

88 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

75 Child’s History of England 20 

91 Pickwick Papers, 2 Parts, each 20 

140 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 

144 Old Curiosity Shop, 2 Parts, each.. .15 

150 Barnaby Rudge, 2 Parts, each. 15 

158 David Coppcrfield, 2 Parts, each. . . .20 

170 Hard Times 20 

192 Great Expectations 20 

201 Martin Chuzzlewit, 2 Parts, each. , ..20 

210 American Notes 20 

219 Dombey and Son. 2 Parts, each 20 

223 Little Dorrit, 2 Parts, each 20 

228 Our Mutual Friend, 2 Parts, each... 20 

231 Nicholas Nickleby, 2 Parts, each 20 

234 Pictures from Italy 10 

237 The Boy at Mugby 10 

244 Bleak House, 2 Parts, each 20 

246 Sketches of the Young Couples 10 

261 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

267 The Haunted House, etc 10 

270 The Mudfog Papers, etc 10 

273 Sketches by Boz 20 

274 A Christmas Carol, etc 15 

282 Uncommercial Traveller 20 

*288 Somebody’s Luggage, etc. 10 

293 The Battle of Life, etc 10 

297 Mystery of Edwin Drood 2(i 

298 Reprinted Pieces 20 

302 No Thoroughfare IS 


437 Tales of Two Idle Apprentices.. ,..i5 
d 


LOVELL’S LIBUARY. 



BY CARL DETLEF 

I 

27 

Irene; or. The Lonely Manor... 

BY PROF. DOWDEN 

...20 

404 

Life of Southey 

BY JOHN DRYDEN 

...10 

498 

Poems 

BY DU EOISGOBEY 

...30 

1018 Condemned Door 

...20 

- 

BY THE “DUCHESS” 


58 

Portia ; 

...20 

76 

Molly Bawn 

...20 

78 

Phyllis. 

...20 

86 

Monica 

...10 

90 

Mrs. Geoffrey 

...20 

92 

Airy Fairy Lilian 

. . . 20 

1*26 

Loys, Lord Beresford 

...20 

132 

Moonshine and Maiguerites 

...10 

162 

Faith and Unfaith 

...20 

168 

Beauty’s Daughters 

.. 20 

234 

Ro.ssmoyne 

...20 

451 

Di)ris 

...20 

477 

A Week in Killarney 

...10 

530 

In Durance Vile 

...10 

CIS 

Dick’s Sweetheart ; or, “• 0 Tender 


Dolores” 

...20 

621 

A Maiden all Forlorn 

...10 

621 

A Passive Grime 

...lU 

7*21 

Lady Branksrnere 

.. 20 

735 

A Mental Struggle 

...20 

737 

The Haunted Chamber 

...10 

792 

Her Week’s Amusement 

...10 

802 

Lady Valworth's Diamond.s 

BY LORD DTJFFEEIN 

...20 


BY M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 

203 Disarmed 15 

6f)3 The Flower of Doom 10 

1005 Next of Kin 20 

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

373 Essays 20. 

ENGLISH MEN OF LETTERS, 
EDITED BY JOHN MORLEY 

318 Bnnyan, by J. A. Fronde 10 

407 Burke, by John Morley 10 

334 Burns, by Principal Shairp 10 

347 Byron, by Professor Niohul .10 

413 Chaucer, by Prof. A. W. Ward.... 10 

4*24 Cowper, by Goldwin Smith 10 

377 Defoe, by William Minto 10 

383 Gibbon, by J. C. Morrison 10 

2*25 Goldsmith, by William Black 10 

309 Hume, by Professor Huxley 10 

401 Johnson, by Leslie Stephen 10 

380 Locke, by Thoraa.s Fowler 10 

392 Milton, by Mark Paltison 10 

398 -?ope, by Leslie Stephen 10 

304 Scott, by R. PI. Hutton 10 

301 Shelley, by J. Symonds 10 

404 Southey, by Professor Dowden 10 

431 Spenser, by the Dean of St. Paul’s. . 10 
344 Thackeray, by Anthony Trollope. . .10 
410 Wordsworth, by F. Myers .10 

BY B. L. FARJEON 

243 Gautran ; or. House of White Shad- 
ows 20 

054 Love’s Plarvest 20 

8.50 Golden Bells 10 

874 Nine of Hearts 20 


95 Letters from High Latitudes 20 

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS 


473 


BY HARRIET FARLEY 

Christmas Stories 20 


761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part 1 20 

701 Count of Monte Cristo, Part II 20 

775 The Three Guardsmen 20 

786 Twenty Years After 20 

884 The Son of Monte Cristo. Part I 20 

884 The Son of Monte Cristc. Part II.. .20 

885 Monte Cristo and His Wife 20 

891 Countess of Monte Cristo, Parti. ..20 
891 Countess of Monte Cristo, Part II... 20 
998 Beau Tancr de 20 

BY ALEXANDRE DUMASj JR. 

992 Camille 10 

BY MRS. ANNIE EDWARDS 

681 A Givton Girl 20 


BY GEORGE ELIOT 

56 Adam Bede, 2 Parts, each 15 

69 Amos Barton 10 

71 Silas Marner 10 

79 Koniola, 2 Parts, each 15 

149 Janet’s Repentance . 10 

151 Felix Holt : 20 

174 T^Iiddlemarch, 2 Parts, each 20 

195 Daniel Deru a da, 2 Parts, each 20 

202 Theophrastus Such 10 

2U5 The Spanish Gypsy.and other Poems20 

207 The Mill cn the Floss, 2 Parts, each.! 5 

RUB Brother Jacob, etc 10 

874 Essays, and Leaves from a Note- 
Book.... 20 


BY F. W. FARRAR, D.D. 

19 Seekers after God 20 

50 Early Days of Christianity, 2 Parts, 

each 20 

BY GEORGE MANNVILLS FENN 

1004 This Man’s Wife 20 

BY OCTAVE FEUILLET 

41 A Marriage in High Life 20 

987 Romance of a Poor Younr Man. . . .10 

BY FRIEDRICH. BARON DE LA 
MOTTE FOUQUE 

711 Undine 10 


760 

818 

843 

844 
850 
•859 

860 

an 

862 

863 

864 

865 

866 
867 


BY MRS. FORRESTER 

Fair Women 

Once Again 

My Lord and My Lady 

Dolores 

My Hero 

Viva 

Omnia Vanitas 

Diana Carew 

From Olympus to Hades 

Rhona 

Roy and Viola L . . . 

June 

Mignon 

A Young Man’s Fancy 


20 

.20 

20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.10 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 


6 


LOVELL^S LIBKARY. 


BY THOMAS FOWLER 

880 Life of Locke 10 

BY FRANCESCA 

177 The Story of Ida 10 

BY R. E. FRANCILLON 

S19 A Keal Queen 20 

856 Golden Bells 10 

BY ALBERT FRANKLYN 

122 Ameline de Bourg 15 

, BY L. VIRGINIA FRENCH 

pS My Boses 20 

' BY J. A. FROTJDE 

348 Life of Banyan 10 

BY EMILE GABORIAXr 

114 Monsieur Lecoq, 2 Parts, each 20 

116 The Lerouge Case 20 

120 0th er People’ s Money 20 

129 In Peril of His Life 20 

138 The Gilded Clique 20 

155 Mystery of Orcival 20 

161 Promise of Marriage 10 

258 Pile No. 113 ...20 

BY HENRY GEORGS 

52 Progress and Poverty 20 

U90 Land Question 10 

393 Social Problems 20 

796 Property in Land 15 

BY CHARLES GIBBON 

57 The Golden Shaft 20 

BY J. W. VON GOETHE 

342 Goethe’s Faust 20 

843 Goethe’s Poem s 20 

BY NIKOLAI V. GOGOL 

1016 Taras Bulla 20 

BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

51 Vicar of Wakefield 10 

jS62 Plays and Poems 20 

BY MRS. GORE 

’ 89 The Dean’s Daughter 20 

BY JAMES GRANT 

49 The Secret Despatch 20 

BY HENRI GREVILLE. 

ICOl Frankley 20 

BY CECIL GRIFFITH 

732 Victory Deane 20 

BY ARTHUR GRIFFITHS 

709 No. 99 10 

THE BROTHERS GRIMM 

221 Fairy Tales, Illustrated 20 

BY LIEUT. J. W. GUNNISON 

440 History of the Mormons 15 

BY ERNST HAECKEL 

97 India and Ceylon 20 

BY MARION HARLAND 

107 Housekeeping and Homemaking — 15 

6 


BY F. W. HACKLANDEE 

606 Forbidden Fruit 24 

BY H. RIDER HAGGARD 

813 King Solomon’s Mines 20 

848 She 20 

876 The Witch’s Head 20 

900 Jess 20 

941 Dawn 20 

1020 Allan Quatermain 20 

BY A. EGMONT HAKE 

371 The Story of Chinese Gordon 20 

BY LUDOVIC HALEVY 

15 L’Abbo Constantin 20 

BY THOMAS HARDY 

43 Two on a Tower 20 

157 Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 
maid 10 

749 The Mayor of Casterbridge 20 

956 The Woodlanders 20 

964 Far from the Madding Crowd 20 

BY JOHN HARRISON AND M. 
COMPTON 

414 Over the Summer Sea 20 

BY J. B. HARWOOD 

269 One False, both Fair 20 

BY JOSEPH HATTON 

7 Clytie 20 

137 Cruel London 20 

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

370 Twice Told Tales 20 

376 Grandfather’s Chair 20 

BY MARY CECIL HAY 

466 Under the Will 10 

566 The Arundel Motto.- 20 

590 Old My ddleton’s Money 20 

71 <7 A Wicked Girl 10 

971 Nora's Love Test 20 

972 The Squire’s Legacy ?X) 

973 Dorothy’s Venture. 20 

974 My First Offer 10 

915 Back to the Old Home lO 

976 For Her Dear Sake 2( 

977 Hidden Perils 20 

978 Victor and Vanquished 20 

BY MRS. FELICIA HEMANS 

583 Poems 30 

BY DAVID J. HILL, LL.D. 

533 Principles and Fallacies of Social- 
ism 15 

BY M. L. HOLBROOK, M.D. 

356 Hygiene of the Brain 25 

BY MRS. M. A. HOLMES 

709 Woman against Woman 20 

743 A Woman’s Vengeance 20 

BY PAXTON HOOD 

73 Life of Cromwell 15 

BY THOMAS HOOD 

511 Poems 30 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY, 


BY HORRY AND WEEMS 


86 Life of Marion 20 

BY EGBERT HOUDIN 

14 The Tricks of the Greeks 20 

BY ADAH M. HOWARD 

070 Against Her Will 20 

093 The Child Wife 10 

BY EDWARD HOWLAND 

742 Social Solutions, Part I 10 

747 “ “ Part II 10 

758 “ “ Partin 10 

762 “ “ Part IV 10 

765 “ “ Party 10 

774 “ “ Part VI... 10 

778 “ “ Part VII 10 

783 “ “ Part VIII 10 

785 “ Part IX 10 

788 “ « PartX 10 

791 “ “ Part XI 10 

796 “ “ Part XII 10 

BY MARIE HOWLAND 

634 Papa’s Own Girl 30 

BY JOHN W. HOYT, LL.D. 

635 Studies in Civil Service 15 

BY THOMAS HUGHES 

61 Tom Brown’s School Days 20 

186 Tom Brown at Oxford, 2 Parts, each . 15 

BY PROF. HUXLEY 

369 Life of Hume 10 

BY STANLEY HUNTLEY 

109 The Spoopeiuiyke Papers 20 

BY VICTOR HUGO 

784 Les M-serahles, Part 1 20 

784 “ “ Part IT 20 

784 “ “ Partin 20 

. BY R. H. HUTTOIT 

S64 Life of Scott 20 

BY WASHINGTON IRVING 

147 The Sketch Book. 20 

198 Tales of a Traveller 20 

199 Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

Part 1 20 

Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

Part 11. 20 

224 Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey. . .10 
236 Knickerbocker History of New York. 20 

249 The Crayon Papers 20 

263 The Alhambra 15 

272 Conquest of Granada 20 

279 Conquest of Spain 10 

281 Bracebridge Hall 20 

290 Salmagundi 20 

299 Astoria 20 

3S1 Spanish Voyages 20 

305 A Tour on the Prairies 10 

308 Life of Mahomet, 2 Parts, each ... .15 

310 Oliver Goldsmith 20 

311 Captain Bonneville 20 

314 Moorish Chronicles 10 


821 Wolfert’s Boost and Miscellanies — 10 


BY HARRIET JAY 

17 The Dark Colleen 20 

BY SAMUEL JOHNSON 

44 Rasselas 10 

BY MAURICE JOKAI 

754 A Modern Midas 20 

BY JOHN KEATS 

631 Poems 25 

BY EDWARD KELLOGG 

111 Labor and Capital 20 

BY GRACE KENNEDY 

1C6 Dunallan, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY JOHN P. KENNEDY 

67 Horse-Shoe Robinson, 2 Parts, each .15 

BY CHARLES KINGSLEY 

39 The Hermits 20 

64 Hypatia, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY HENRY KINGSLEY 

726 Austin Eliot 20 

723 The Hillyars and Burtons 20 

731 Leighton Court 20 

736 Geoffrey Harnlyn 30 

BY W. H. G. KINGSTON 

254 Peter the AVhaler 20 

322 Mark Seaworth 20 

324 Round the World 20 

335 The Young Foresters 20 

337 Saltwater 20 

338 The Midshipman 20 

BY F. KIRBY 

454 The Golden Dog 40 

BY A. LA POINTE 

445 The Rival Doctors . . . .* 20 

BY MISS MARGARET LEE 

25 Divorce 20 

600 A Brighton Night .20 

725 Dr. Wilmer’s Love 25 

741 Loriiner and Wife 20 

BY VERNON LEE 

797 A Phantom Lover 10 

798 Prince of the Hundred Soups 10 

BY JULES LERMINA 

469 The Chase 20 

BY CHARLES LEVER 

327 Harry Lorreqner 20 

789 Charles O’Malley, 2 Parts, each 20 

794 Tom Burke of Ours, 2 Parts, each . , 20 

BY H. W. LONGFELLOW 

1 Hyperion 20 

2 Outre-Mer 20 

482 Poems 20 

BY SAMUEL LOVER 

163 The Happy Man .....10 

719 Rory O’ More 20 

849 Handy Andy 2C 


7 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY 




BY COMMANDER LOVETT-CAM- 
ERON. 

817 The Cruise of the Black Prince. , . .20 

BY MRS. H. LOVETT-CAMERON 


927 Pure Gold 20 

BY HENPY W. LUCY 

96 Gideon Fleyce 20 

BY HENRY C. LUKENS 

131 Jets and Flashes 20 

BY EDNA LYALL 

96 2 Knights-Errant 20 

BY E. LYNN LYNTON 

275 lone Stewart 20 


BY LORD LYTTON 

11 The Coming Race 10 

12 Leila 10 

31 Eniest Maltravers 20 

32 The Haunted House 10 

46 Alice : A Sequel to Ernest Maltra- 
vers 20 

55 A Strange Story 20 

59 Last Days of Pompeii 20 

81 Zanoni 20 

84 Night and Morning, 2 Parts, each, .15 

117 Paul Clifford 20 

121 Lady of Lyons 10 

128 Money 10 

152 Richelieu 10 

160 Rienzi, 2 Parts, each 15 

176 Pelham 20 

204 Eugene Aram 20 

222 The Disowned 20 

240 Kenelm Chillingly 24) 

245 What Will He Do with It ? 2 Parts, 

each 20 

247 Devereux 20 

250 The Caxtons, 2 Parts, each 15 

253 Lucretia 20 

255 Last of the Barons, 2 Parts, each ... 15 

259 The Parisians, 2 Parts, each 2 J 

271 My Novel, 3 Parts, each 20 

276 Harold, 2 Parts, each 15 

289 Godolphin 2 ) 

294 Pilgrims of the Rhine 15 

317 Pausanias 15 

BY LCaD MACAULAY 

333 Lays y Ancient Rome 20 

BY F xTHERINE S. MACQ.U0ID 

898 Joan Wentworth 20 

BY E. MARLITT 

771 The Old Maai’selle’s Secret 20 

1053 Gold Elsie 20 

BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT 

212 The Privateersman 20 

BY HARRIET MARTINEAU 

353 Tales of the French Revolution 15 

354 Loom and Lugger 20 

3.57 Berkeley the Banker 20 

358 Homes Abroad 15 

363 For Each and For All 15 

372 Hill and Valley 15 

379 The Charmed Sea 15 

388 Life in the Wilds 15 

895 Sowers not Reapers 15 

400 Glen of the Echoes. 15 


BY FLORENCE MARRYAT. 


903 

The Master Passion 

2a 

904 

A Lucky Disappointment,... 

10 

905 

Her Lord and Master 

20 

906 

My Own Child 

i'O 

907 

No Intentions 

20 

908 

Written in Fire 

20 

909 

A Little Stepson 

10 

910 

With Cupid’s Eyes 

20 

931 

Whv Not ? 

20 

937 

My Sister the Actress 

20 

938 

Captain Norton’s Diary 

10 

939 

Girls of Feversham 

. . ..20 

94 J 

The Root (»f all Evil 

20 

9 2 

Facing the Footlights 

20 

t)43 

Petronel 

20 

944 

A Star and a Heart 

10 

945 

Ange 

20 

946 

A Harvest of Wild Oats 

20 

947 

The Poison of A-ps 

10 

948 

Fair-Haired Alda 

20 

949 

The Heir Presumptive 

20 

950 

Under the Lilies and Roses,. 

20 

951 

Heart of Jane Warner 

20 

952 

Love’s Conflict, Part I 

20 

952 

Love’s Conflict, Part II 

20 

953 

Phyllida 

20 

954 

Out of His Reckoning 

10 

979 

Her World against a Lie 

20 

990 

Open Sesame 

20 

991 

IMad Duniaresq 

20 

999 

Fighting the Air 

20 


BY HELEN MATHERS 

165 Eyre’s Acquittal 

1046 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye 

1047 Sam’s Sweetheart 

1048 Story of a Sin 

1049 Cherry Ripe 

1050 My Lady Green Sleeves 

BY A. MATHEY 


46 Duke of Kaudos 20 

60 The Two Duchesses 20 

BY W. S. MAYO 

76 The Berber .20 

BY J. H. McCarthy 

115 An Outline of Irish History 10 

BY JUSTIN McCarthy, m.p. 

278 Maid of Athens 20 

BY T. L. MEADE 

328 How It All Came Round 20 

BY OWEN MEREDITH 

331 Lucile 20 

BY JOHN MILTON 

889 Paradise Lost 20 

BY WILLIAM MINTO 

377 Life of Defoe 10 

BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 

1008 Marrying and Giving in Marriage . 10 

BY THOMAS MOORE 

416 Lalla Rookh 20 

487 Poems 40 

BY J. C. MORRISON 

383 Life of Gibbon IQ 


10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 


8 


LOVELL’S LIBRAEY. 


BY JOAN MOBLEY 

407 Life of Burke 10 

BY EDWARD H. MOTT 

139 Pike County Folks 20 

BY ALAN MUIE 

SI 2 Golden Girls 20 

BY LOUISA MUHLBACH 

1000 Frederick the Great and his Court. .SO 

Daughter of an Empress 30 

'.vo4 Goethe arid Schiller . 30 

BY MAX MULLER 

i30 India : What Can Ii Teach Us ? .... 20 

BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 

197 By the Gate of the Sea 15 

758 Cynic Fortune 10 

BY F. MYERS 

410 Life of Wordsworth 10 

BY MISS MULOCK 

33 John Halifax 20 

435 Miss Tommy 15 

751 King Arthur 20 

BY FLORENCE NEELY 

504 Hand-Book for the Kitchen 20 


BY REV. R. H. NEWTON 

83 Right and W rong U ses of the Bi ble . . 20 


BY JOHN NICHOL 

347 Life of Byron 10 

BY JAMES R. NICHOLS, M.D. 

375 Science at Homo 20 

BY W. E. NORRIS 

108 No New Thing 20 

592 That Terrible Man 10 

779 My Friend Jim 10 

BY CHRISTOPHER NORTH 

439 Noctes Ambrosianae 30 

BY LAURENCE OLIPHANT 

196 Altiora Peto 20 

BY MRS. OLIPHANT 

124 The Ladies Lindores 20 

179 The Little Pilgrim 10 

175 Sir Tom 20 

326 The Wizard’s Son 25 

868 Old Lady Mary 10 

602 Oliver’s Bride 10 

717 AKlountry Gentleman 20 

831 The Son of his Father 20 

920 John : a Love Story 20 

925 A Poor Gentleman 20 

994 Lucy Crofton 10 

BY OUIDA 

112 Wanda, 2 Parts, each 15 

127 Under Two Flags, 2 Parts, each 20 

387 Princess Napraxine 25 

675 A Rainy June 10 

763 Moths 20 

790 0th mar 20 

805 A House Party 10 

852 Friendship 20 

853 In Maremma 20 

854 Signa 20 

855 Pascarel 20 


BY MAX O’RELL 

336 John Bull and His Island 28 

459 John Bull and His Daughters 211 

BY ALBERT K. OWEN 

655 Integral Co-operation .30 

BY LOUISA PARR 

42 Robin 20 

BY MARK PATTISON 

392 Life of Milton 10 

BY JAMES PAYN 

187 Thicker than Water 20 

830 The Canon’s Ward 20 

659 Luck of the Darrells 20 

BY HENRY PETERSON 

1015 Pemberton 30 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE 

403 Poems 20 

426 Narrative of A. Gordon Pym 15 

432 Gold Bug, and Other Tales 15 


438 The Assignation, and Other Tales.. 15 
447 The Mui’ders in the Rue Morgue 15 

BY WILLIAM POLE, F.R.S. 

406 The Theory of the Modern Scien- 


tific Game of Whist 15 

BY ALEXANDER POPE 

391 Homer’s Odyssey 20 

396 Homer’s Iliad 30 

457 Poems 30 

BY JANE PORTER 

189 Scottish Chiefs, Part 1 20 

Scottish Chiefs, Part II 20 

382 Thaddeus of Warsaw 25 

BY C. F. POST AND FRED. C. 
LEUBUCHER 

838 The George-Hewitt Campaign 20 

BY ADELAIDE A. PROCTER 

339 Poems 20 

BY AGNES RAY 

1010 Mrs. Gregory 20 

BY CHARLES READE 

28 Singleheart and Doubleface 10 

415 A Perilous Secret 20 

759 Foul Play 20 

773 Put Yourself in his Place 20 

913 Griffith Gaunt 20 

914 A Terrible Temptation 20 

915 Very Hard Cash 20 

916 It is Never Too Late to Mend 20 

917 The Knightsbridge Mystery 10 

918 A Woman Hater 20 

919 Readiana 10 

BY REBECCA FERGUS REDD 

16 Freckles *20 

408 The Brierfield Tragedy 2(1 

BY “ RITA » 

556 Dame Durden 20 

I 599 Like Dian’s Kiss 20 

I BY SIR H. ROBERTS 

i 101 Harry Holbrooke 20 


9 


LOVELL’S LIBEARY 


134 

411 

837 


,829 


i59 


497 

505 

610 

616 

621 

637 


54ii 

■>65 

572 

>77 

389 

608 

698 

623 

627 

637 

639 

612 

644 

677 

(550 

665 

6(58 

670 

673 

676 

679 

682 

685 

688 

707 

708 

713 

714 


123 

399 

&33 

834 

&35 

836 

997 


816 


135 

966 


27 


no 


BY A. M. F. ROBINSON 

Aiden 15 

BY REGINA MARIA ROCHE 

Children of the Abbe 3 ’ 30 


BY J. C. F. VON SCHILLER 


341 Schiller’s Poems 20 

BY MICHAEL SCOTT 

171 Tom Cringle’s Log 20 


BY BLANCHE ROOSEVELT 


Marked “In Haste” 20 

BY DANTE ROSSETTI 

Poems 20 

BY MRS. ROWSON 

Charlotte Temple 10 

BY JOHN RTJSKIN 

Sesame and Lilies 10 

Crown of Wild Olives 10 

Ethias of the Dust ..10 

Queen of the Air 10 

Seven Lamps of Architecture 20 

Lectures on Architecture and Paint- 
ing 15 

atones of Venice, 3 Vols., each 25 

JEodern Painters, Vol. 1 20 

“ Vol. II 20 

“ “ Vol. HI 20 

“ “ Vol. IV 25 

“ “ Vol. V 25 

King of the Golden River 10 

Unto this Last 10 

Munera Pulveris 15 

“ A Joy Forever ” .15 

The Pleasures of England 10 

The Two Paths .... 20 

Lectures on Art 15 

Aratra Pentelici 15 

Time and Tide 15 

Mornings in Florence 15 

St. Mark’s Rest 15 

Deucalion 15 

Art of England 15 

Eagle’s Nest ..15 

“ Our Fathers Have Told Us” 15 

Proserpina 15 

Val d'Arno 15 

Love’s Meinie 15 

Fors Clavigera, Part 1 30 

“ “ Part IT 30 

“ “ Part III 30 

“ “ Part IV SO 


BY SIR WALTER SCOTT 

145 I van hoe, 2 Parts, each 15 

359 Lady of the Lake, with Notes 20 

489 Bride of Lammermoor 20 

490 Black Dwarf 10 

492 Castle Dangerous 15 

493 Legend of Montrose 15 

495 The Surgeon’s Daughter 10 

499 Heart of Mid-Lothian 30 

502 Waverley . ... 20 

504 Fortunes of Nigel 20 

509 Peveril of the Peak 30 

515 The Pirate 20 

536 Poetical Works 40 

544 Redgauntlet 25 

551 Woodstock 20 

557 Count Robert of Paris 20 

569 The Abbot 20 

575 Quentin Durward 20 

681 The Talisman 20 

686 St. Ronan s Well 20 

59^ Anne of Geierstein 20 

605 Aunt Margaret’s Mirror 10 

607 Chronicles of the Canongate 15 

609 The Monastery 20 

620 Guy Mannering 20 

625 Kenilworth 25 

629 The Antiquary 20 

632 Rob Roy 20 

635 The Betrothed 20 

638 Fair Maid of Perth 20 

641 Old Mortality 20 

BY EUGENE SCRIBE 

22 Pleurette 20 

BY PRINCIPAL SHAIRP 

334 Life of Burns 10 

BY MARY V/. SHELLEY 

5 Frankenstein 10 

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

649 Complete Poetical Works 30 


BY W. CLARK RUSSELL 


A Sea Queen 20 

John Holds worth 20 

A Voyage to the Cape 20 

J ack’s Courtship 20 

A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

On the Fo’k’sle Head 20 

The Golden Hope 20 

BY DORA RUSSELL 

The Broken Seal 20 

BY GEORGE SAND 

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1054 Goethe and Schiller, by Miihlbach. 30 

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1080 The Blue Veil; or, The Ciime of 

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1089 Prairie Flower, by Aimard 10 

1090 Wilhelm Meister’s Travels, by 

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1092 Milton’s Poems 35 

1093 Lady Grace, by Mrs. Henry Wood.20 

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1095 From the Other Side, by Notley.. .20 

1096 The Co-operative Commonwealth, 

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From The Other Side. 


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It 


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FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


CHAPTER L 

“ Boat ahoy !’’ cried a gentleman in hot haste, as, running fast, 
he reached the quay on the Devonshire side of the Torpoint 
Passage. 

“ The ferry-boat has just started, sir,” said a boatman ; “ and 
she won^t be back for half an hour good.” 

“ Then I shall lose the mail !” exclaimed the gentleman, in a 
tone of intense vexation. 

“ I can row you across, sir, in time to catch her.” 

“ Out with your boat sharp then, my man V 

“ All right, sir — she’ll be ready in two minutes.” 

The tra veller watched the adjusting of the gear and launching 
of the boat with a curious impatience. He was a young fellow 
of about twenty-two, tall, handsome, and full of health. He had 
never overworked his brain, and was not given to nervous fancies, 
yet at that moment he was filled with an ugly foreboding that the 
loss of the ferry-boat would bring misfortune. 

“ And I rode so hard to catch it !” he said to himself. 

This mental ejaculation increased the strange anxiety within 
him, and his feverish desire to hurry across the river grew 
stronger. 

“ How long the fellow is !” he cried. “ His two minutes are 
growing to ten.” 

He took out his watch, and was observing with wonder that 
only three minutes had elapsed, when a quick step made him look 
round. Then he started and turned away suddenly, with a flush 
rising on his face. 

“ It is the same queer customer that I out-raced on the road. 
By jove, the fellow can’t be going into Cornwall too !” 


4 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


“ Boat is ready, sir.” 

“ So am I,” returned the young man, jumping into it instantly. 
“ Pull away for your life !” 

The boatman, with the oars in his hands, was just dipping them 
into the water, when the stranger who had a moment before 
arrived on the pier sprang into the boat, and with a quiet smile 
on his lips, took his seat opposite to the young traveller. 

“ I beg your pardon — I have hired this boat,” he observed, in 
an angry tone. 

“Pray excuse the liberty I take in intruding on you,” returned 
the other, in a courteous and strangely sweet voice. “ I have lost 
the ferry-boat like yourself, and my presence will not, I hope, in- 
convenience you. It will be a gain to the poor man. Half a 
guinea, boatman, for your best speed.” 

What could Harold Olver say ? He repressed a burning de- 
sire to hurl the intruder into the sea, and answered with a sort of 
civil sullenness that he was welcome. 

“There is no time fora row,” he said to himself. “ I should 
lose the mail if I stopped to fling the fellow into the tide.” 

The boatman rowed hard ; the sweat poured from his brow, the 
muscles of his strong arms quivered ; he seemed to be straining 
every nerve, and his eyes had a strange dilated look. 

Harold glanced at him with a little bewilderment, and told 
himself that he was over-anxious to earn that unlucky half- 
guinea. 

As the twilight deepened, a gray shiver crept over the water 
with a chill breeze which roughened it, and the waves, rising be- 
fore it rapidly, made rowing difficult. The man only rowed the 
harder, and his fixed eyes seemed to gather terror with every 
stroke of his stout ears. 

“ I’ll take an oar if you like,” said Harold Oliver, looking at 
him with the same odd bewilderment in his mind. “ This capful 
of wind seems to give you half a scare.” 

The man made no reply, but by a motion of his eyelids in- 
dicated an extra oar lying at the bottom of the boat. As Harold 
rose quietly to reach it, the intrusive passenger began to whistle 
softly. 

“ Whistling raises the wind — so sailors say,” observed Harold ; 
“ and we have enough already. What do you say to putting up 
a sail, boatman T 

The man only shook his head, and Harold, in his light-hearted 
way, answered his question himself 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


5 


“ Ah, of course it wouldn^t do I With wind and tide both 
rushing up the river, we should make Saltash instead of Torpoint 
if we sailed.^' 

With a cool air Harold dipped his oar into the sea ; but in the 
momentary cessation of the boatman’s efforts, as he changed sides 
and dropped one oar, the boat quivered and was spun round by 
the tide, with her bow turned from the Cornish shore. 

“ Give way, sir !” cried the man angrily. “ There’s a squall 
coming, 

A sudden rush of wind swooped upon them as he spoke, and 
the boat, being broadside to the waves, was nearly turned over, 
while Harold was flung from his seat, and the oar swept from his 
grasp like a straw. For an instant the frail craft was at the 
mercy of the sudden storm, but the sailor silently recovered his 
dropped oar, and brought her head round to the wind with a few 
swift and steady strokes. 

“ I think you had better sit still, sir,’^ he said to Harold, as 
that young gentleman gathered himself up a little ruefullly ; “ I 
haven’t another oar to spare.” 

“ Oh, I’ll pay you for the one I have lost !” returned Harold, 
with a laugh. ‘‘ But, all the same, row away. We have lost 
time, and we seem to have drifted far above Torpoint” 

This was true, and it was only dimly through the sea-mist and 
gathering darkness that the opposite shore loomed out, with the 
large ferry-boat faintly visible, discharging her passengers on the 
hard. 

Harold glanced towards it anxiously, while the oarsman took 
a swift look, and bent again to his work with the furious energy 
and odd scare about him which the excitemeut of the squall had 
for a time quelled. The cool stranger meanwhile continued to 
whistle softly the same weird air which through the wild rush of 
the wind had fallen distinctly on the ear ; and now the small 
sharp piping sound, as it beat on Harold’s brain, fllled him with 
an irritating sense of something forgotten yet familiar — a thing 
for which the mind groped dimly, as for a lost path in darkness. 

Ah,” he exclaimed suddenly, “ I remember now — you must 
have picked up that queer old tune in Syria V* 

“ Yes,” said the other, raising his dark eyes for the first time 
to Harold’s face. “ Have you been in Syria ?” 

“ I am sorry to say I have ; and my rascally Arabs used to 
howl that tune outside my tent till I hated the sound of it.” 


6 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ That is curious ; it is an air of the Crusaders. Languages 
die, but a tune lives always.’' 

This remark elicited no reply from Harold, who was peering 
earnestly forward towards the shore. 

“ We shall miss the mail !” he cried. “ Surely I see the horses 
being led out.'’ 

“ The coachman will wait if he sees us, sir," said the boatman, 
in his hurried scared voice. 

“ But the night is growing black as pitch — he won’t see us !" 
cried Harold excitedly. “ I wish you would stop whistling,’’ he 
added, in an angry tone, to the stranger — “ it sounds so cooL 
You are not going on, I suppose ?’’ 

“ Not by the coach,” returned the other quietly. “ I have a 
horse waiting for me.” 

“ Ah,” said Harold — “ I hope lie is a good one.” 

This remark was intended to be slightly offensive, for Harold 
was excessively annoyed at the prospect of his journey being de- 
layed, and somehow he illogically considered the stranger’s pre- 
sence to be the cause of his losing the mail. Nevertheless, when 
the unwelcome intruder, instead of replying, raised his eyes and 
let them rest for a moment on Harold’s, the depth of sadness in 
them caused him a strange revulsion of feeling. 

“ Poor chap — looks like a soldier and a gentleman ; going home 
perhaps, and expects to find everybody dead." 

In this disjointed way the careless young man’s thoughts ran, 
half pitiful, and yet threaded with an angry repugnance, a sort 
of nervous longing for battle with his enforced companion. 

“ If he would talk, one might not feel so much inclined to throw 
him overboard,” continued Harold to himself. 

As if in answer to this thought, the stranger said, in his mar- 
vellously sweet courteous voice — 

I owe you an apology for thrusting my companionship on you 
in this un\^ elcome way ; but, if you knew by what sad necessity 
I am compelled to journey into Cornwall this night, you would 
excuse me.” 

“ Don’t mention it,” returned Harold. “ I am sorry if — if bad 
news ” He stopped, remorseful, reflecting on the joyous er- 

rand which was the cause of his own journey. 

That old tune now,” continued the other, setting aside his 
sorrow, whatever it might be, in courtesy — “ so you found it in 
Syria still ? It is very ancient — an old battle-song of the Crusar 
ders.” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


7 - 


“ Ah, poor old fogies !” said Harold. “ What a mistaken, queer, 
battered old crowd they must have felt themselves to be — the few 
that got home, you know — when they found their sweethearts 
married to somebody else, their wives also perhaps, and their cas- 
tles in the hands of their bosom-friends or brothers. I wonder 
if they lived ever afterwards upon cockle-shells and a pilgrim’s 
staff.” 

‘‘You hold the modern idea that all things are laughable,” re- 
marked his companion, with a quiver of angry contempt in his 
voice. “ Those who returned, as some did, to languish out the 
rest of their lives in chains and darkness in some foul dungeon, 
felt the horror of their position, not the humor of it.” 

“ You are over-serious now,” said Harold, staring at him, with 
a curious sensation in his nerves. 

His companion made no reply, but began to whistle again in 
the same soft persistent way, while Harold felt his ears tingle with 
irritation as the small piping sound made itself heard shrilly 
through the howling of the wind. 

“ That is an exasperating tune !” he said angrily. 

At the moment that he spoke, from amid the darkness shroud- 
ing the Cornish shore a bright light shot forth and vanished. 
But in the instantaneous flash the mail-coach had appeared like a 
vision — a man harnessing the wdieelers, the passengers climbing 
to their seats, the guard in his scarlet coat standing by, horn in 
hand. At this sight Harold started up in consternation. 

“ There is no chance for me now !” he cried. “ The mail will 
be off in two minutes.” 

“ Sit down, sir,” exclaimed the boatman, “ or a worse thing will 
happen to you than losing the coach.” 

The young man fell back on his seat with a strong word on his 
lips ; he felt full of anger from head to heel. He would have been 
glad if his hateful companion had given him a blow which would 
have yielded him the chance he longed for to relieve the tingling 
of his hot blood in battle. Why had the fellow intruded on him ? 
He felt as though the storm was of his raising and all the conse- 
quent delay his work. 

“ I shall be a firm believer henceforth in the old superstition 
that whistling raises the wind,” he said angrily. 

But the stranger had ceased to whistle ; he was regarding the 
coast-line with mournful, wistful eyes, and seemed as completely 
unconscious of his companion’s chargin as he had been of the storm 


8 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


and danger. Now he roused himself by an evident effort, saying, 
in the most courteous tone of his sad voice — 

I am sorry if I have annoyed you. On nearing that shore 
yonder the old air comes to my lips unawares. Do not fret your- 
self ; the mail will not go without you. We shall land directly 
the wind has gone down . ” 

This was true. There was a sudden lull, and the boat now shot 
into stiller water near the landing-place. Just above it stood the 
mail-coach, obscurely visible, a group of idlers around it, the mur- 
mur of whose confused voices came out to them, mingling with the 
stroke of the oars and the dash of the sea upon the strand. Sud- 
denly, floating across the dark waves, clear as a thread of light, 
from out the confused murmurs came a few whistled bars of the 
same wild weird air which only a moment before had ceased to 
ring from the stranger’s lips. Harold and the boatman involun- 
tarily turned their gaze on him, one in amazement, the other in 
fear. He was deadly pale, and a ghastly look of pain contracted 
his brow. 

“ An old Crusader .come to meet you apparently,’’ observed 
Harold, speaking with pitiless lightness, because, like an unex- 
pected touch, the sound had given him a nervous shock which he 
resented. 

“ Yes — a friend,” said the other quietly, hiding his eyes with 
a long pale hand. 

There was a wild haggard grief in them, Harold thought, which 
he did not wish a stranger to see. So, slightly remorseful, Harold 
kept silent till the boat’s keel grated on the sands ; then he start- 
ed up joyously in sudden relief. 

“ All’s well that ends well !” he cried gaily. “ Here’s your fare, 
boatman, and here’s for your lost oar. Well rowed, old fellow ! 
You have pulled a good oar through the gale.” 

His companion had already stepped ashore, and was standing 
close by the boat’s prow. 

“ And here is your well-earned half-guinea,^’ he said, stretching 
out his hand with that now obsolete coin in the palm. 

But the old sailor dashed the proffered gift aside, and glared at 
him with face working and eyes full of terror. 

‘‘ Satan, I defy thee and all thy bribes !” he cried ; and in des- 
perate hurry, flinging Harold’s valise ashore, he cleared the beach 
with one lusty stroke, and in a moment was only a dim shape on 
a darkening sea. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


9 


Harold laughed and turned to see how the stranger bore the 
appellation bestowed on him ; but he was gone, and his retreat- 
ing figure had already vanished in the crowd and dimness. 

‘‘Well, he might have said ‘Good-night, and thank you,^ ” 
thought the young traveller, with an odd little laugh. “ Never 
niind — I am glad to be rid of him. He is rather queer, and I am 
not surprised the old salt took him to be the great nameless.’^ 

Shrugging his shoulders, Harold strode forward to the coach. 

“How are you, Jarvey? Here’s my valise. And I’ve be- 
spoken the box-seat. Hope you’ve kept it for me.” 

“All right, sir !” returned the many-caped Jehu, touching his 
hat with his long whip and giving the young fellow a smile of 
recognition. “ But you’ll sit behind a poor team to-night, Mr. 
Olver. We have pretty nearly had a fight over the cattle this 
evenings — that’s what has delayed us. You have had a rough row 
across the Passage, sir f’ 

“ Pretty stiff,” returned Harold, flinging up his valise for the 
man to catch — “blowing a gale and dark as a bag. Without 
that flash of lightning I doubt if we should have found the land- 
ing-place.” 

“The ostler swears it wasn’t lightning. That’s just what 
caused the row, sir.” 

“ Not lightning V Then what was it?” 

“ It was the quarest light I ever seen in my life, except waunce 
afore, and that was more years agone than I can mind,” interposd 
the ostler, looking up from his work of harnessing the teams. “ I 
was a boy then, and I went to fetch out the horses for the mail, 
jist as I did but now, when the same quare light flashed out and 
blinded me, and, when I rubbed my eyes and got out of my daze 
like, the best boss was gone !” 

“ Because you left the stable door open, buffle-head !” retorted 
the coachman. “ Exactly what he did again to-night, sir ; and 
the black mare broke loose and has shown us a clean pair of heels. 
It is a sorry beast we have in her place ; and, bad as he is, we had 
to wait twenty minutes till he was fetched from a farm.” 

“ Why not have spent half that time in catching the mare ?” 
asked Harold, as he settled himself with great-coat and wraps in 
his seat. 

“ She’s far to seek by this time. The mare was wanted, and is 
gone on her errand, and the hoss isn’t foaled that can overtake 
her now,” said the ostler, as he held up his lantern and examined 


10 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


the harness all round with peering eyes. “ Catch the ribbons, 
J arvey ! It’s all right ; it waient be my fault if the coach breaks 
down, as she did that night twenty years agone, when the same 
thing happened as happened now.” 

“ Ah, I mind that night well enough. Bill !” remarked the land- 
lord of the little posting-house that horsed the coach. “Folks 
may laugh, but that same night Squire Carbonellis was drowned 
in his own park, crossing a stream that a boy might jump over 
with a whistle.” 

“ Not Mr. Carnbonellis of Langarth?” cried Harold, turning 
eagerly towards the man with a startled look. 

But there was no time for answer — the coachman had gathered 
up the reins, the guard blew a sounding blast on his horn, the ostler 
with an upward toss of his hands, released the leaders’ heads, the 
team plunged forward, and his Majesty’s mail started on its 
journey through storm and darkness. 


CHAPTER II. 

The lamps sent weird flashes of light on the dark hedges, bring- 
ing their wintry bareness into fleeting view ; the wild waving of 
boughs overheaa moaned and creaked in the rough wind like the 
song of the storm, which the whirr of the wheels accompanied ; 
while the beat of the horses’ hoofs kept time to this wild night- 
music. 

“ We shall have a rough journey,” observed the coachman 
gravely. 

“ I never heard that Mr. Carbonellis of Langarth was drowned,” 
said Harold, letting his thoughts break into words hurriedly. “ Is 
'it true?” 

“ True enough, sir,” was the answer, given in the sort of tone 
which implies a graver fact held back. 

Silence followed this reply. Harold felt a nervous irritation 
tingling through his veins. Young Carbonellis was his college- 
friend : he was going now to Langarth at his invitation. Never 
through their long friendship had he named the fact respecting 
his father’s death, which now by a mere accident dropped from a 
stranger’s lips. His sister was Harold’s betrothed ; she too had 
shown the same reticence — never in their most intimate converse 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


11 


had she touched on this sad subject. Why was there any mystery 
in the matter, and by what curious combination of circumstances 
was it connected in that stupid landlord’s mind with the running 
away of a frightened horse ? 

As if in answer to the mental query, the echo of a horse’s 
wild gallop came borne on the wind, floating from a hill opposite, 
the long ascent which lay dimly before them. 

“ Can you see any one riding sir asked the coachman. 
“ You have younger eyes than mine.” 

Harold bent forward and peered into the gloom eagerly. 

“No; it is too dark. Stop ! Yes, I do see a horseman. He 
is riding furiously.” 

“ A black horse, sir T 

“ Yes — as far as can judge in this dim moonlight. Certainly, 
if not black, the horse is not a light one.” 

“ Jim, there goes the mare !” said the coachman, in a voice 
which sounded strangely full of meaning, as turning round to the 
guard, he pointed with his long whip to the top of the hill, where 
where for an instant, like a phantom, the distant rider stood 
out against a moonlit lowering sky, and then vanished. 

“ Ah, I thought so when I heard that devil’s tune whistled 
out so loud and clear !” returned the guard, as, standing up, he 
leaned over the roof of the coach to bring his voice nearer. 
“ Whip up the team, Jim, and let us try to pass him.” 

“ Much good that would do,” rejoined the other. “ The oflf-leader 
would break down on that job in less than a mile. 

Nevertheless he quickened the pace of the team, and the coach 
was gallantly drawn up a third of the hill at good speed ; but 
here the borrowed horse showed signs of distress, and, soon falling 
into a walk, the mail was dragged but slowly along for the rest 
of the ascent. 

The echo of that fierce gallop ahead of them still reached the 
ear, though growing more and more faint, till it was lost in a 
deeper, fuller sound, which mingled with the sough of the wind, 
and in a moment was recognized as the wild roar of waves 
rushing upon a rugged shore. 

On reaching the top of the hill the coachman drew rein for an 
instant to breathe the panting horses ; and now the white gleam 
of the waves was visible as they tossed and broke amid the heav- 
ing darkness of the sea. Down far below, all along the black 
rugged shore, a snow-line of foam flashed, tossed, and broke ; and 


12 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


here and there, amid the white boil, the jagged points of huge 
rocks were visible, as the rush of the waves retreated, or the 
gleaming spray dashed up their rough sides and caught the faint 
light of the crescent moon. 

A wild sea and a wild night, sir,^^ remarked the coachman to 
Harold, as again the mail plunged forward, and the sea- spray, 
driven above the cliffs, met their faces with a cold salt touch. 
“ It’s always a wild night when that man rides.” 

“ And who is he T asked Harold. 

“ Ah, that’s a question, sir, that has been asked many a time, 
and has never been answered yet !” 

“ But, if the man steals horses,” persisted Harold incredulous- 
ly, ‘‘ I can’t understand his not being discovered and hanged.” 

“ I never said he stole horses, sir.” 

“You said he was riding the missing black mare.” 

“ So he is ; but he won’t steal her.” 

“ Then the man is a mystery T said Harold. 

“ That’s exactly v/hat he is, sir. And whether he is flesh and 
blood, or something one don’t like to talk about, is more than 
either you or I will ever be able to tell.” 

“ I don’t see that ; and I can’t believe in ghosts riding off on 
other folk’s real live horses,” returned Harold, with a laugh 
which sounded mockingly in his own ears, as the sea-wind met 
his lips and carried it away. 

“Nor in their coming across the ferry in other folk’s boats,” 
said the coachman, with grim humour. 

“ Was that the man V — and Harold’s voice took a different 
key, while an odd thrill crept over his flesh. 

“ That was the man, sir.” 

“ And you say he is not a horse-stealer — though to my mind 
he looks like a very daring one.” 

“ The horses come back to their stables, sir, and money enough 
with them to make it worth their owners’ while to keep quiet — 
that’s how the matter is worked.” 

“ Well, it is a queer story,’^ said Harold. 

“ You’d say that, sir, if you heard the whole of it.” 

At this point in their talk the coach was descending slowly a 
long steep hill, and the guard had got down to attend to the 
drag, ,some slight hitch being in the chain ; and now, looking up, 
with the moonlight shining on his weather-beaten face, he held 
his hand upward, beckoning to the driver to stop. 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


13 


“ Throw me your knife, Tom. I can^t find mine. The ofi'-lead- 
er has a stone in his foot.” 

After a moment’s fumbling in numerous pockets, the penknife 
was found and flung to him, and he proceeded to remove the 
stone. During the process a curious silence seemed to fill the 
air. The cessation of the rumbling of wheels and the beating of 
hoofs was doubtless the cause, yet to Harold’s mind there was 
something strange and sinister in this sudden dead calm and 
silence. No one spoke as the guard, stooping low, strove to re- 
move the stone, which was wedged tightly in the horse’s hoof. 
The shadow of the coach stretched its weird length upon the road 
like wings of darkness, and overhead the moon shone out fitfully 
from amid flying clouds, which passed her disc in sombre hurried 
procession. Their swift noiseless gathering had an eager look, as 
though a compelling force lay within their folds and they stretch- 
ed out arms of darkness to cover some cruel deed. Far away to 
the left the distant roll of the surf upon the shore was felt rather 
than distinctly heard, and the murmuring faint sound did but 
add to the silence. The treeless road was spread before them 
like a dim white belt girding the hill, without speck or sound to 
relieve its solitude. 

The scene fixed itself like a picture on Harold’s mind and he 
was unwilling to utter a word to break its sombre spell. But, as 
the guard rose to his feet, the silence which surrounded them w^as 
pierced with sharp abruptness by the shrill, clear, small sound of 
a whistle. Sweet as a thrush’s pipe the distant voice whistled 
the first part of the wild weird air distinctly as Harold had heard 
it on the ferry. With hand upraised, the guard stood for a mo- 
ment as if turned to stone, while the coachman, with arm out- 
stretched,, held it in mid-air, nor dropped it till the whistle died 
away as suddenly as it came. Then, gathering up the reins as 
the guard clambered to his seat, he started the horses at a hand- 
gallop. 

“ That drowned the answering whistle, Jim. I’m dashed if I 
wished to hear it !” observed the coachman, throwing the words 
over his shoulder in a jerky voice. 

“ So there is always an answering whistle ?” remarked Harold. 

“Always, sir.” 

“ Then there are two of them T said Harold with a short 
laugh. 

The man turned a grave face towards him. 


14 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ I^d rather you didn^t laugh, sir, if you don’t mind. I know 
it all sounds queer, but queer things do happen at times that 
common sense can’t compass. Maybe you’ll hear more of the 
matter at Langarth. And it’s because I’m afraid you may tirid 
trouble when you get there that I took the liberty, sir, to ask you 
not to laugh.” 

“ Oh don’t apologise !” said Harold gravely. The man’s words 
had taken from him all inclination to laugh ; the thought of 
trouble at Langarth had sobered him. 

The guard had clambered over the roof and taken his seat be- 
hind them. He leaned forward now, saying, in a low voice — 
What do you think, Tom — shall we find the roan gone this 
time ?” 

“ I hope not ; that horse would take him where he’s bound to 
in an hour.” 

“ Then, if he gets the roan, there’s no chance of our catching 
him up ?” 

‘‘ There wouldn’t be anyhow,” responded the coachman. “ No 
man has ever overtaken that rider yet.” 

“ Ah, but I should like to try it with him one night !” return- 
ed the guard. 

“ So should I,” said Harold, whether the fellow be thief or 
ghost.” 

‘‘ You are a good rider, Mr. Olver, but that would be a sharp 
race ; and no one has ever won it yet. You see he is riding ahead 
of us now, and he’ll keep ahead till he gets to his journey’s end ; 
then we shall lose him.” 

“ And where is he going T 

“ To the same place that you are bound for, sir.” 

‘‘To Langarth?” exclaimed Harold. 

The coachman nodded, and, bending his head to the storm, he 
seemed suddenly inclined to keep silent. 

“ Then he is a friend of the family ?” continued Harold, 

“ Perhaps so, sir ; but he doesn’t act like one.” 

“ What do you mean !” 

“ T mean he never comes to Langarth that he doesn’t leave a 
corpse behind him. Heaven, there he is — do you see him, sir ? — 
just on the white bit of the road where the moon is shining !” 

Harold leaned forward with a throb at his heart, and caught 
sight in the flash of an instant of the dark rider, with the pale 
gleams of moonlight quivering about him. A black cloud touch- 
ed the moon, and the figure was gone. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


15 


Harold drew a deep breath, and then said impatiently — 

“ The man is evidently a man, and not a ghost, and I presume 
his errand to Langarth is an important one, or he would not ride 
so fast.” 

“ We all know his errand ; he brings death to Langarth.^' 

The superstitious assertion had a ghastly sound as the words 
rang out on the night-air, and, being both angry and startled, 
Harold turned on the man sharply. 

“ Is that what you meant when you saia just now I might find 
trouble at Langarth ? Have you any reason for what you say 1 

Because, if not, I consider such assertions ” 

I beg pardon — no ofience meant, sir,” interposed the coach- 
man. “ I do wrong perhaps to say a word on the matter ; but 
^tis common talk around Langarth.” 

‘‘ Common talk !” repeated Harold, in a vexed tone. “ But 
who is the man, and why does he ride to Langarth V 

“No mortal can tell you that, sir. He comes and he goes, 
leaving sorrow behind him, and no man has ever yet met him 
face to face and dared to say. Who are you ?” 

“ I saw him face to face in the boat, but it certainly did not 
occur to me to ask him who he was or what was his errand,” said 
Harold with impatience. 

“ W^ell, sir, I won’t say again what his errand is.” 

“ Ah, I give you up !” returned Harold, crossing his arms with 
an air of resignation. “ You Cornish are the most superstitious 
people in the world, and there is no use in arguing the case with 
you. Still I should like to hear what possible reason you can 
find for investing a queer traveller with a sort of death-warrant.” 

“ Well, sir, the last time — twenty years agone — ^that this rider 
was down in these parts, Mr. Carbonellis was found drowned in 
his park.” 

“ But the one event could have had nothing to do with the 
other,” observed Harold, in a logical tone. 

“You ain’t the first, sir, that have said so. Yet I reckon it’s 
past your understanding, and likewise mine, to say why death 
always follows that rider’s heels. Fifteen years before Mr. Car- 
bonellis was drowned, his father was brought home dead through 
a fall from his horse. That very evening the ‘ Night Whistler ’ 
— that’s what we call him down here, sir — crossed the ferry 
’twixt Cornwall and Devon, and rode to Langarth. This was 
afore my time, but I’ve heard my father tell of it.” 


16 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ Before your time repeated Harold, with sharp emphasis. 
“ Why, the man is not so old as you, and you make out he was 
here thirty-five years a^o ! Let me see —1 judge him to be forty ; 
so he was five years old then.^^ 

“ He was here thirty-five years ago,’^ pefi'sisted the other — “ ah, 
and a hundred and thirty-five years ago ! This has been going 
on at Langarth ever since the roof- tree was laid on it. You ask 
the young lady, sir, when you get down there. 

Harold made no reply to this, for they were now close to the 
posting-house, and the guard, with the laudable intention of wak- 
ing a drowsy world, was sounding a hearty blast on his horn. 
In another moment the mail-coach drew up beneath the sign of 
the “Silent Woinan,^^ whose peaceable portrait was swinging 
headless in the wind. 

A crowd of rustics surrounded them in an instant. Among 
them, pressing to the front, was the stout landlord, with flabby 
face unwontedly white. He held up a quivering hand, moving 
his fingers in recognition. Behind the crowd stood a man in a 
smock-frock, holding in one hand a horn lantern and in the other 
a rough halter attached to a sorry-looking liorse. This last group 
was made dimly visible by the light of the lantern, while the 
lamps in the mail-coach and the blaze of the fire flashing through 
the window of the inn flung grotesque lights and shadows over 
the rest of the crowd. 

“ Here’s a pretty go, Tom i” cried the landlord. “ The roan 
is stole away.” 

The coachman flung down the reins loosely to the ostler, and 
turned a look on Harold. 

“ I hope you’ve got a decent animal in his stead,” was all his 
response, as he descended from the box and walked forward to 
examine the fresh team. 

The landlord, on his part, turned a curious eye on the horses 
that were now being unharnessed. 

“ Why, what’s come of the black mare he cried. 

“ She’s in your stable, master — in the roan’s stall,” said the os- 
tler, looking up from his work. “ Reeking wi’ sweat she be, and 
shaaking en every lemb. I tould ’ee so afore, aanly you wus as 
onbelieving as Tummas.” 

The landlord gave the man a scared look, and, taking a step 
backward, he laid his hand on the rail of the guard’s seat. 

“ ’Tis true enough, Jim,” he said. “ The Whistler is out’* 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


17 


“ I knowed that at Torpoint/’ returned the other, a little proud 
of his prior information. 

“ And the worst is, Jim, that Mr. Carbonellis has got some hot 
work in hand to-night.” 

“ What’s up then asked the guard. 

The answer was given in a whisper, but Harold caught the 
words “smugglers” and “cutter.” And now for the first time 
he began to feel uneasy. He knew his friend’s reckless and dar- 
ing spirit, he knew too that smuggling was rife and popular in 
Cornwall and desperate deeds grew out of it. He chafed at the 
slow fingers of the ostler — he was impatient to be at Langarth. 
If Carbonellis was bent on some rash adventure, he hoped to ar- 
rive in time to stop him from rushing into it. 

The horsing of the mail-coaches throughout England at this 
period was carried to the point of perfection ; the harnessing of 
a fresh team was usually accomplished in three minutes, but this 
time the ostler dragged their slow length to five. The sorry beast 
that replaced the missing roan was a kicker, and flung out his 
heels at slight provocation. Twice he kicked over the traces, 
and, turning completely round, faced the shaking ostler with a 
snarl on his upraised lip. Moreover, there was a change of 
coachmen here, and the new driver was in a worse temper even 
than the horse. His objurgations caused a further delay, but at 
length he gathered up the reins with an oath and a protest against 
both landlord and the kicker ; then, as he held up his whip threat- 
eningly, the guard gave a flourish on his horn, and once more his 
Majesty’s mail sped onwards through the night. 


CHAPTER HI. 

At the great gates of the park at Langarth Harold Olver stood 
alone and somewhat disconsolate. The mail was late, owing to 
the poor horsing of the coach, as from posting-house to posting- 
house the same disaster pursued them and the same rider preced- 
ed them. 

The new driver — a young man not given to wild beliefs — had 
met each landlord’s statement with savage incredulity and desper- 
ate ill-temper. He grew taciturn and sullen as mile by mile they 
plodded on with lame and vicious horses, making slow way against 
driving rain which beat coldly against their facea 


18 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


The folks down in these parts would make you believe any* 
thing,” he observed sulkily to Harold Olver, in answer to that 
young gentleman’s request to be set down at Langarth. “ How, 
according to them, pixies come and ride horses by night ; and this 
here fellow, who has been going on ahead of us for forty miles or 
thereabouts, isn’t a horse -stealer, but a sort of ghost, who kills a 
Carbonellis every time he takes a ride. Now I expect, sir, you’ll 
find everybody hale and hearty at Langarth ; and, before you 
alight, I should like to give you my notion of who this scamp is. 
It’s my opinion he’s in league with the smugglers that the young 
Squire has sworn war against, and he is just riding for his life to 
warn them the Preventive men will be out after them to-night. 
There’s rich men in the trade, who don’t mind killing horses, 
or paying for them either, when a valuable cargo has to be 
saved.” 

The idea was so opposite to Harold’s own fears that it seized 
upon his mind instantly and filled him with dismay. 

“ It is quite possible,” he said slowly. “ I hope Mr. Carbonellis 
is not with the Preventive men.” 

“ He is out in their cutter often, sir. And, if the smugglers 
are warned, there’ll be a fight as sure as two and two is four. 
Here we are at Langarth ; and, if all those fools say is true, 
there’ll be no more horses stole away on the road beyond this. 
Good night, sir, and thank you. I’m afraid, if a carriage was 
waiting for you, it is gone — we are so late. And it’s a mile through 
the avenue up to the house.” 

And with this the coach rattled oflf, with its four inside sleep- 
ing passengers and with its one wakeful baby and mother on the 
outside back seat near the guard. 

Harold stood for a moment watching it, till it disappeared in 
the darkness. He was undecided whether to knock up the in- 
mates of the lodge and inquire for the carraige that he had ex- 
pected to meet him, or whether to leave them sleeping in peace, 
and walk up to the house, carrying his valise himself. He de- 
cided on the latter course. But, as he put his hand on the gate 
to open it, he paused, for the sound of furious galloping came 
with the wind that met his face. For a moment he fancied that 
it was the echo reaching him from the hoofs of the departing 
team ; but the mail had gone west, and the wind blew straight 
from the south. 

“ Is it — can it be possible that that strange man is riding to 
Langarth, and it is his horse I hear galloping up the avenue f ’ 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


19 


For an instant Harold Olver listened, the next he had flung 
his valise down beneath a tree, and, leaving the road, he sprang 
across the grass and gained a foot-path which evidently led to the 
house by a nearer way. He ran as he had never run before, ex- 
cept in a foot-race, and always in his ears there rang the sharp 
thud and echo of that wild galloping. Once, as the foot-path 
diverged near the road, he fancied that he caught in the distance 
a glimpse of a flying horseman flitting like a shadow through the 
gloom of overhanging trees. On and on he sped at the top of his 
speed, filled with the wild desire to be first at the door of Lan- 
garth, and confront and dismay with his presence this mysterious 
and phantom rider. But he failed in the attempt. Just before 
he reached the house he heard the clang of the huge ancient bell 
which hung at its portal, and he knew in his own heart that it 
was rung by the pale hand of the Niglit Whistler. 

He paused in his race, discomfited, and at that instant the man 
passed him at a little distance, riding slowly and dejectedly be- 
neath the darkness of the trees, his head hanging down, his eyes 
fixed like those of a man in a dream, and his long thin white 
hand resting on his hip. On his face there was an expression of 
horror and grief so intense that, as the moonlight fell on it, 
flashing it for a moment into view, Harold involuntarily drew 
back. The next instant the darkness had covered him. 

“ Can he be going to the stables that way thought Harold, 
gazing blankly into the black space of night into which the vision 
had vanished. 

In another minute or two he was at the door, which opened 
ere he touched the bell ; and a familiar voice greeted him, and a 
cheering light shone out upon the broad gravel road, which was 
void of all figures save his own. 

“ I heard you ring, sir,” said the old servitor, in a deprecatory 
friendly voice, “ and am sorry to have kept you waiting ; but the 
cord of a picture in master’s study had just broken, and it fell 
with such a crash that I feared perhaps Miss Estrild was fright- 
ened, and ” 

“ Pray don’t apologise. Prior ! I assure you I have not wait 
ed a moment ; it was not 1 who rang.” 

“ Not you, sir ?” 

No, it was a gentleman on horseback. I fancy he has gone 
round to the stables — he passed me just now.” 

“ He couldn’t go to the stables that way,” said Prior, with a 


20 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


flourish of the head. “ 1^11 run round, sir, to see. And where is 
your portmanty, sir. Dear, dear, what a pity the carriage didn’t 
wait. But the lodge-keeper declared the mail had passed so for 
certain, the coachman believed you hadn’t come.” 

“ Perhaps he thought it had passed because the time at which 
it was due had certainly passed,” returned Harold, as he divest- 
ed himself of his great-coat. “ And, as for my valise,” he con- 
tinued, “ it is under a tree close by the lodge. Please send a 
man with several lanterns. Prior, to fetch it ; and don’t forget 
there’s a strange gentleman somewhere about the premises, wait- 
ing, I suppose, to enter.” 

“ I’ll see to it all directly, sir. This way, please ; Miss Estrild 
is in the study.” 

Harold had lingered in the hall during this talk, partly because 
he was conscious of being nervous and he wanted to recover his 
equanimity, and partly because a question was on his lips which 
he felt a reluctance to utter ; but he spoke now. 

“ Isn’t your master at home. Prior 

A change came over Prior’s face, and he answered a little prim- 
ly, as if afraid of saying too much — 

“ You’d have seen him afore now, sir, if he was home ; but he’ll 
be back in the morning.” 

Harold felt a throb at his heart which vexed him, it was so 
like a superstitious fear ; yet the next moment he was all smiles 
and his face was radiant with a great joy, for his eyes were look- 
ing into eyes that he loved. 

“ I had given you up,” said Estrild, raising her long lashes 
shyly for just an instant, as, all aglow with love and joy, he bent 
over her. “ I thought you had missed the mail, and would not 
be here till to-morrow. Tristram waited for you till half-past 
ten. You know the coach always passes the lodge at ten minutes 
past ten punctually, so, if you had arrived by it, he would have 
seen you. I felt so disappointed when the carriage came back 
empty.” 

Did you ?” said Harold ; and, as he held her within the ring 
of his arm, he emphasised his question with a tighter clasp. 

“ Yes ; but it was not all on your account — it was partly for 

Tristram. I thought if you came you would dissuade him ’ 

She paused, and a slight flush rose to her cheeks. 

“You thought I should keep him at home to-night,” said 
Harold — “ and I certainly should have tried to do so. Hasn’t 
he gone on some rather risky expedition 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


21 


“ How came you to guess it — and the girl disengaged herself 
from his embrace, and, laying her hands on his shoulders, gazed 
into his face with sad, anxious eyes. ‘‘ Oh, Harold, I wish you 
could have been here earlier. 1 suppose you posted down V* 

“ Nothing of the kind, darling. Do you suppose his Majesty’s 
mail is infallible, bound to keep the time like a Greenwich clock ? 
It was late to-night — that was all ; and I wish your coachman 
had waited for me — perhaps then ” 

“ Well ? Perhaps what V 

“ Why, then I should have had the pleasure of seeing your dear 
face half an hour sooner 1” responded Harold, changing his words, 
though not his thoughts. 

‘‘ Ah, then I should not have had a disappointment, and you 
would have kept Tristram here. It was very wrong of the man 
not to wait ; but, you see, he and the lodge-keeper both made 
sure that the mail had passed, and that somehow they had miss- 
ed seeing it, the night is so dark.” 

“ Supper is served, miss,” announced Prior, opening the door 
with a discreet and unnecessary twisting of the handle. 

The young lady passed out ; and then Prior by a slight gesture 
stayed Harold’s steps. 

“ Your portmanty is in your room, sir ; and I’ve sent men 
round to the stables and yard and through the grounds, but 
there’s no gentleman and no horse to be seen. I think, sir, if 
you’d excuse me, I wouldn’t mention the matter to Miss Estrild. 
What with the master being away and the picture falling, she’s 
rather upset.” 

“ Quite right. Prior, I shall not say a word. It was some be- 
lated traveller who had lost his way doubtless.” 

Harold said this cheerily, but felt at the same time that his 
words were without reason and the whole affair was strange and 
mysterious. 

“ I wonder now if that fellow rode up to the house to make 
sure that Tristram was away V he said to himself. “ Prior, do 
you know where your master is gone ?” he asked aloud. 

The man looked at him oddly. 

“ No, sir ; 1 wish I did — I should go and warn him. The 
place where these expeditions meet is kept secret, sir.” 

“ Warn him of what ?” asked Harold eagerly ; the man’s words 
fell upon his ear like the echo of a whisper constantly spoken in 
his own spirit. 


22 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ See here, sir returned Prior, stepping forward. “ Have 
you looked at this 

Harold turned sharply, and then saw leaning against a book- 
case a large painting with the frame shattered by its fall. Estrild 
had been standing before it during their interview, hence it had 
escaped his notice, his eyes naturally being filled only with her 
sweet face. Now, as Prior took a heavy, candlestick from the 
table and held it before it, he saw a dark pale face gleam out of 
the canvas, with sad, worn, searching eyes, and a long thin hand 
resting on the hip, beneath the black armour in which the figure 
was portrayed. 

As he turned away, he tried to avoid Prior’s anxious question- 
ing eyes ; but the man had seen his startled look, and was an- 
swered. He replaced the candlestick on the table with a trembl- 
ing hand. 

“ I’ve been here, sir, man and boy, for fifty years,” he said 
quietly. “ I was fifteen when I first saw that picture fall, and 
come to life, as one may say, and old Mr. Carbonellis was brought 
home dead. Twenty years ago it fell, and came to life again, and 
his son, my dear master, was drowned. Miss Estrild is calling 
you, sir.” 

“What do you mean by ‘came to life’?” asked Harold im- 
patiently, and yet in a low tone, for he heard the coming of a soft 
step. 

“ You’ve seen, sir, for yourself what I mean. Yes, miss — Mr. 
Olver is coming ; he’s been giving me some orders about his 
luggage.” 

Estrild stood at the door, and looked from one to the 
other. Harold felt as though ghosts, mysteries, fears, and whistl- 
ing horsemen were painted visibly on his bronzed countenance. 
He broke into an abrupt laugh, with some apology for keeping 
the supper waiting. 

“It is of no consequence,” returned Estrild, “ since I have only 
cold pheasant for you. Oh, you have been examining the portrait 
of the ‘ Black Crusader,’ as we call him 1 I’ll give you his history 
by-and-by, to undo Prior’s superstitious account of him. He was 
not so black as he is painted.” 

“ He has a painful face. I should burn him if he belonged to 
me,” said Harold — “ or sell him perhaps.” 

The girl laughed. 

“ That has been tried two or three times — so the story goes— 
and he always comes back.” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


23 


They passed into the dining-room hand-in-hand, and the happy 
love which ran through their young veins chased away for a time 
the forbodings which each perhaps secretly felt. 

In fatigue, darkness, and cold a man may be superstitious, 
especially if leariness be added to these discomforts. “ Leariness’^ 
is an old word, out of use except among the peasantry — sole con- 
servatives of ancient things — but it expresses so exactly the sad- 
ness and weariness of hunger that no other word can so precisely 
fill its place. “ 1 am lone and leary,” says a poor old forlorn 
woman living on parish pay. “ I go leary away,^’ says the beggar 
in the West, when driven from a door. All through his journey 
Harold Olver had been ‘‘ leary f but a good supper, cheery fire, and 
the bright presence of the loved one whose every look brought happi- 
ness had changed his feelings completely. All was joy and peace; the 
world was an easy-going, natural, homely place ; everything was 
as good and full of daylight as daisies ; to-morrow would be as 
pleasant as to-day, and pleasanter. Life, like a rush of sunshine, 
ran through his veins, as this aspect of the universe was the true 
one at the time — for youth and innocence and fair love are good ; 
and, when a man and woman have these, all the powers of dark- 
ness cannot touch them with fear. 

Tlie lovers did not talk much ; they were too intensely happy 
and too new to their happiness at first for overflowing speech. 
But, when, sitting after supper by a clear wood fire in the ancient 
hall, their being together seemed no longer such a strange wonder- 
ful thing, but grew to be a natural, homely, comfortable fact, the 
flood-gates of speech were opened. They laughed, they chatted, 
they kissed, they forgot time and sorrow. But love’s language is the 
same all over the world, and this was best spoken in the short 
soft silence which fell at times upon them, when Estrild’s head 
rested on her lover’s shoulder and his brown hand parted her dark 
locks that he might better see the clear deep blue eyes which look- 
ed into his and smiled. 

The fitful fire-flame flickered on the coats of mail and batter- 
ed helmets and faded portraits hanging on the walls, and, glancing 
around on them, he said laughingly — 

“ Tins must be a grand place for ghosts, Estrild. I suppose 
you have any amount of them wandering about in the old rooms V 
To his surprise, she answered his jest in a grave tone. 

“ It is near midnight — not a time to talk of such things. Ill 
tell you all the Langarth ghost-stories to-morrow in the sun- 
shine.” 


24 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ Well, and then you’ll let me explore the old place with you, 
which you know I have never done yetf’ 

“ Oh, yes, if you like 

“ It must be wonderfully ancient,” continued Harold. 

“ Yes — some parts of it.” 

“ Ah, I remember your brother telling me that you have an 
old dungeon, and staircase, and some other cranky dismal remains 
left of the original castle built in the time of the Crusades !” 

Hark !” exclaimed Estrild, starting up suddenly. “ Do you 
hear nothing V 

“No,” he answered, pressing her into her seat again by his 
side. “ There is not a sound stirring except the wind.” 

“ Oh, I was in hopes it was Tristram’s step !” 

“ It is only the rain pattering on the gravel. I am glad it is 
raining ; the wind will go down now.” 

“You don’t think there is any danger at sea ?” said Estrild, 
flushing with the fever of her thoughts. 

“None whatever for such a good ship as the Revenue cutter.” 

“ Oh, I wish Tristram was not with these Preventive men to- 
night !” 

“ What makes him so mad lately against our friends the 
smugglers?” asked Harold. 

“It’s a long story,” said Estrild ; “ and it rises out of many 
events. But the war began through their hiding kegs in a cave 
which runs up from the cliflP beneath our park ; I have never 
shown you the place, but, strangely enough, about half a mile or 
more from the sea there is a great rift or opening into it near a 
spring called the ‘ Mermaid’s W ell.’ In wild weather the sea 
rushes up through the cave and tills the well with salt and water. 
That is the time when a boat can enter the cave and kegs can be 
floated up to a spot where the receding tide leaves them dry and 
secure. Then, you perceive, if there were no other safe way of 
removing them, men could descend through the rift I have named, 
and could haul them up through the opening by means of ropes.” 

“ It must be a pretty large chasm,” observed Harold. 

“ It is fearful. It looks narrow from a little distance ; but no 
man could leap across it — even the deer don’t try — and the roar 
of the sea when it boils and chafes through the cave is appalling 
— it shakes one’s nerves to hear it. I never go near the ciiasni 
in stormy weather. Well, about a year ago the Preventive-ser- 
vice men made a search in the place and found half a ship’s cargo, 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


25 


I believe ; and the discovery cast a slur on my brother's name. 
On one side he was suspected of knowing and conniving at the 
fact ; and by the smugglers he was accused of betraying them. 
They declared his father and grandfather had had many a good 
cask of brandy in return for the use of the cave ; so now they 
called Tristram a traitor to the old stock, and said he had sold 
them for money.’' 

“ Well, I dare say in the old days your grandfather may have 
accepted a gift of French brandy and winked at the hauling of 
kegs through his park,” said Harold jocularly. 

“ But Tristram never did,” returned Estrild warmly. “ And 
now these shameful slanders have made bad blood between him 
and the poor people around us.” 

“ Who are all friends of the smugglers,” said Harold, laugh- 
ing. 

“ Oh, don’t laugh ! I have been quite unhappy lately.” 

“ You mean since Tristram has declared war against them and 
allied himself with the enemy T 

“ Well, yes. I mean since he has put himself on the side of 
law and order, and has given out that on no part of his land, or, 
if he can prevent it, under the cliffs bordering it, will he allow a 
shelter to be found for contraband goods.” 

“That’s rather strong,” said Harold; and he broke into a 
whistle, but checked himself with a start of vexation, for unwit- 
tingly there had issued from his lips tlie first notes of that wild 
air which, like the sound of an unseen stream by a mountain-path, 
had followed his course that night and crept in an undercurrent 
through all his thoughts. 

Estrild, looking white and strange, had seized him by the arm 
ere the sound had died on his lips. 

“ Hark !” she whispered. “ In a moment we shall hear the 
answer. It always comes, people say, in time of danger.” 

And then, after a second’s silence, as they stood together, she 
clinging to him, the notes were repeated with clear distinctness, 
sweet and shrill, apparently from just without the window. After 
a moment’s hesitation, in which Harold had listened with quick- 
ened breath, be dashed forward towards the casement ; but Estrild 
held him back with all her strength, and with rapid change of 
thoughts he yielded to her will. 

“ It is an echo,” he said, “ and a curious one. But perhaps it 
comes only when the wind lies in a certain quarter.” 


26 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


CHAPTER IV. 

“Where did you hear that tune T asked Estrild, putting aside 
Harold’s suggestion that the echo came only when the wind was 
in a certain quarter. 

“ I have heard you sing it to me,” he answered, in his gayest 
way. 

“Ho, never. I know of no words to it.” 

“Well, then, you have played it,” he rejoined. 

“Oh, no, no ; thei*e is a reason why I never should.” 

“ But you have the music T 

“ Yes, in manuscript copied by my grandmother. But she 
never played the old air after her husband’s sad death. There is 
a curious superstitious feeling about it in our family. My grand- 
mother called it the ‘ Crusaders’ Chant ’ — I don’t know if that is 
its right name.” 

“ It will do for it, at all events,” said Harold. “ And now 
you are going to knock down the family bogy and play it for me 
at once.” 

The girl looked at him with sudden tears in her eyes. 

“ If you knew the story of that man whose picture fell to-night, 
you would not ask me.” 

“ Indeed but I would. I want to dispel your foolish fancies. 
We should always grapple with this kind of nonsense and bowl 
it over. Come, darling — do play this queer old tune to oblige 
me !” 

A little more coaxing, a kiss or two on the fair soft cheek, and 
Estrild yielded, though her heart was heavy with a sad reluctant 
foreboding. 

The yellow faded manuscript was searched for and found, and 
soon beneath her skilful fingers the mournful chant rang out 
solemnly through the large silent room, while the weird echo 
without repeated the strain fitfully, and bore it away on the wind’s 
wings into the night’s darkness. 

As she played, Harold leaned over her caressingly, 

“You perceive, darling, I was right about the echo. I wanted 
you to be convinced.” 

She looked up at him with eyes full of strange expectant fear ; 
then, as the last chords died away beneath her fingers and her 
hands dropped upon the keys, there sprang into the sudden silence 
the deep boom of a gun at sea. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


27 


“ What is it ? What has happened V she cried wildly. 

‘‘Nothing/' answered Harold, hiding his own anxiety. “It is 
only a harmless shot fii'ed by the cutter's men to show the smug- 
glers they are in earnest.” 

“ Oh, I cannot believe you ! Prior — Prior ” — for the old man 
was standing at the door with a white grave face — “ what is hap- 
pening ? Who is tiring V 

“ I came in to tell you, miss, lest you should be frightened. I 
heard master say before he left that he should ask the captain of 
the cutter to fire a shot when they were nearing home, just to let 
you know that all was safe.” 

Estrild sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. 

“ Thank Heaven !” she said softly. 

As her head dropped, the old man looked at her wistfully, as if 
thinking his falsehood would not avail to give her peace for long. 
Then he turned and met Harold’s eyes with a gaze which he un- 
derstood and obeyed. 

“ My dear Estrild, you must go to rest,” he said. “ It is very 
late.” 

“ But Tristram,” she answered — “ surely he will be home soon 
now ; and I must wait ” 

“ The cutter can’t be in till morning, miss,” interposed Prior. 
“You seethe wind is dead against her now.” 

He looked imploringly at Harold for help, and his voice shook 
a little in spite of his efforts to keep it steady. 

“ My darling,” said Harold, in a low voice as he took Estrild’s 
hand, “you hear what Prior says? You see it would be un- 
reasonable to sit up; and, to own the truth, I am dead tired 
myself and longing for sleep. But, of course, if you persist in 
your wish to stay up, I shall do the same.” 

Estrild raised her eyes to his face, then she looked at Prior ; 
both men bore her gaze steadily with reassuring calm mien. A 
sigh broke from her lips ; then she rose and held out both hands 
to Harold. 

“ I don’t think you would both deceive me,” she said piteously. 
“I should be selfish to keep you from rest after your long 
journey. Yes, I will do as you ask — I will try to sleep. Good 
night ! ” 

Upon hearing her say this. Prior discreetly retired, and then 
Harold took his love within the circle of his arm, and with 
soothing words succeeded in restoring her to calmness. So a 
final good night was said at last almost cheerfully. 


28 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


They had mounted the stairs together, and in the long dim 
corridor where they had parted Harold now stood in pained 
thought. The sound of the gun at sea, which like a dull blow 
had struck the windows of the house, was still vibrating in 
his ears. Now that he could think of it alone, it made the 
blood leap in his veins. If a fight was going on, he would fain 
be in it ; the warrior instinct of the English race and of his own 
warm youth grew hot about his heart. Nor was it this alone 
which moved him ; formless, wordless there lay beneath all a 
something unseen, unheard, which yet beckoned and spoke in a 
voiceless, viewless way and was nevertheless stronger than the 
cry to arms or the sight of a foe’s face. The vague fear which 
had crept like a trail of blood through all the hours of the night, 
and which hitherto he had held from him with both hands, roused 
him now into action. 

That night-rider, around whom the pesantry had thrown a 
shadow of superstitious horror, was surely a swift messenger 
fr®m one of those rich traders who secretly owned some of the 
smuggling craft on this wild coast. He had come to warn them 
and set them on the defensive, and maybe a battle was raging 
while he stood there supine. 

There are times when reason persuades' us into beliefs or 
disbeliefs which an underlying and deeper feeling protests 
against. This was the case now with Harold Olver, and with 
silent steps he went in search of Prior. 

The old man had put out the lamps and was dozing wearily 
in an arm-chair in his own sanctum. He rubbed his eyes and 
looked up at Harold in a dazed way. 

“ Now, Prior, what does that gun at sea mean ? It does not 
signify in the least what you said, I presume ? ” 

“The Lord forgive me for lying,” returned Prior piously. 
“But there, even if He don’t, what can it matter what falls 
upon me so that Miss Estrild gets rest and strength to bear 
what the morning may bring 1 That shot means danger to the 
cutter, sir ; or, more likely still, it means there’s a fight going 
on somewheres out there in the storm and darkness.” 

“ Well, old fellow, if there is, I mean to get into the midst 
of it as quickly as I can. Your master keeps boats, I know.” 

“ There’s a good sea-going boat in our cove, sir.” 

* Then can we call a crew together of honest men who will 
launch it and venture out with me to your master’s aid in spite 
of wild weather ? ” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


29 


“Men, sir ? Plenty who care as little for a rough sea as they 
do for a smooth one ; but iPs the job they won’t like. We sha’nt 
find men willing to go out against their friends and brothers. Oh, 
why didn’t master keep to the good old ways of his forefathers ? 
The folks round would have died for a Carbonellis then; now he’s 
looked on as an enemy.” 

“ See here, Prior — it is no time for talk !” Gather your wits 
together aud think of the few true men — servants, keepers, any- 
one who can row — who will make up a scratch crew and come 
with me to-night.” 

“ They’ll be marked men — they’ll be hated ever after !” said 
Prior, rising slowly. “ But they can ail row well enough — we are 
used to the sea down here.” 

“ Then rouse them up quickly and quietly. I am afraid the 
Preventive men are getting the worst of it to-night.” 

The old man’s eyes turned upon him with a flash of fire in 
them. 

“ If master wasn’t with that gang, I shouldn’t be sorry. I’ll 
go now and rouse my son, and he’ll get the men 'together and 
have the boat ready in half an hour or less.” 

Left alone, Harold took up a small lamp, and, impelled by 
feelings which he did not analyse, went to the library. Here 
placing the light near the fallen portrait he stood contemplating 
it, yet not seeing the painted face, but the living one of the sad 
stranger who had sat opposite to him in the boat and ridden 
past him with drooping head and dejected mien beneath over- 
hanging boughs. 

The picture was painted on panel ; it was hard and crude, and 
yet it had that unmistakable seal upon it' which proved it the 
true similitude of the living man whom it represented. It was a 
worn, sad warrior face, having the strange shining look in the 
eyes which is said to forbode an early or a violent death. 

Minutes passed swiftly as Harold stood overwhelmed by that 
dim groping search which at times perplexes- the human mind. 
Like a blind man stretching his hands into the darkness, so does 
the soul at rare moments seek to enter the unseen and make tarn 
gible to tlie sense those things which a sure instinct teaches her 
are real though hidden. 

Throughout nature we find in instinct cause and reason ; no 
instinct has ever proved to be untrue. If this be the case in 
natural things, we may surely deem it so in those which, in our 
ignorance, we name supernatural. 


30 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


To the dark edge of that material ground on which we all 
stand there comes at times from the Infinite beyond a light that 
gleams, a shape that beckons, a shadow that speaks. 

Shall we deny their existence because, in belonging to another 
world, they can come only to the threshold oE this 1 Or, in 
plainer words, because the laws of our existence and theirs differ-, 
therefore they can toucii only for a moment, perhaps with mutual 
risk, as the denizens of air and water may each stand on the 
verge of the other’s element for a little space, but can never enter 
it and live. 

As Harold Giver stood face to face with this portrait of a dead 
man — a man who had lived and died centuries before, whose 
history was to him a blank — he felt that it was nevertheless in- 
terwoven with his own life, and he was in the presence of a 
mystery which touched his innermost being. He was going he 
knew not whither, into regions beyond the senses, and his 
strained nerves almost caught the clue, almost grasped the so- 
lution, and saw the secret shape of the vision before him, when, 
with a start, a human voice brought him back to earth. 

It was a relief, and he turned eagerly to greet, as he thought, 
Tristram Carbonellis. But he saw no one. 

Startled, he sprang to the door and opened it, but the hall was 
empty, and the dim light of the great staircase before him bore 
no sound of footfall. He placed the lamp upon a table and pass- 
ed his hand across his forehead in wonder. Who had spoken, 
and what had the voice said ? It was strange ; but he was some- 
what dazed, and he could not recall the words. They had 
sounded clear and distinct when he heard them ; but now they 
v/ere gone. 

He returned to the library and searched it through, but found 
no one, and knew he should find no one. 

Prior’s step sounded now through the hall, and Prior’s voice 
called his name, bringing him back to healthier life. 

‘‘ The boat is ready, sir. Ah, you are looking at the old pic- 
ture ! It is more like the living man than the dead, if he is a 
living man.” 

“ You mean the strange visitor who preceded me and then rode 
away. I have been thinking, Prior, that he was a messenger to 
the smugglers, and perhaps some compunction, some dread of 
consequences, led him to come here to give your master warning 
also. Then at the last moment he repented of that impulse, and 
rode away without speaking.” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


31 


They were passing through the hall as Harold said this, and 
Prior did not answer till both were out in the free air beneath 
the stormy sky. 

“ Twenty years ago he came and went in the same way, sir, 
and fifteen before that he gave us warning too ; but his warnings 
have naught to do with things of this world. Take that path, 
sir, and you can’t miss the way to the little cove where the boat 
lies. There you’ll find the men. God speed you, Mr. Harold ! 
Don’t provoke wrath if you can help it — leave angry men alone.” 


CHAPTEH Y. 

A rough sea at night, with dark and driving clouds above, and 
tumbling waves whose abysses were darker still beneath, and a 
frail boat holding lives between these two. Whosoever has not 
grasped an oar at such a time, and with hand and eye and ear 
alert striven to fight for dear life against the strength of that 
strongest of all deaths, the sea, has not tasted of true danger, or 
felt- through every thrilling nerve the loveliness of life. 

The darkness deepened as the winter night wore on to morn- 
ing, and the cold strengthened, but the wind lulled, and the 
waves fell into smoother, calmer lengths. In the rush of the 
wind the men had scarce heard each other’s voices, nor had they 
tried to speak ; but now the strain was over, the battle was 
fought, and each man felt a lightening of his heart. Hot a sound 
was on the sea save the beat of their own oars, not a speck was 
visible save the faint reflection of stars in the deep dark of the 
heaving waters. Steadily through the dying storm and the night 
silence the crew rowed on, a pale gleam of phosphoric light shin- 
ing on their path, then vanishing into swift darkness. 

They had rowed thus for an hour without result — no sail had 
come phantom-like across the water, no stroke of oars had broken 
the monotonous moaning of the sea ; but now, ever and anon, 
they saw near by what seemed the white crest of a wave, which 
fell into darkness, then rose again nearer, and gained upon them 
in a strange silent way, till, gliding close by, it loomed out sud- 
denly as a long low white boat impelled by muffled oars and full 
of armed men. 

“ Hallo I” shouted Harold, springing up. 


32 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ Boat from his Majesty^s cutter the Alert , responded a voice. 
“ Yield, or we fire 

“We are no smugglers,*' returned Harold — “ boat from Lan- 
garth, manned by Mr. Carbon ellis's servants. We are seeking 
him. Is he with you ? Can you give us tidings of him V 

There was a sudden silence in the Preventive service boat, fol- 
lowed by a short whispered conversation between the officer in 
charge and the coxswain. 

“ Mr. Carbonellis is on board the Alert , said the former, in a 
hesitating voice, as he raised his cap to Harold. “ I am glad you 
have come. The Alert lies just within that point yonder ; you can 
head it now that the wind has fallen. I am sorry I cannot turn 
back and show you the way. We are on duty ; we are in pur- 
suit of a boat that has escaped. You have not come across any 
craft f* _ 

“ No,” was the answer, given quickly. 

“ Ah, I thought not ! You — you will have to take Mr. Car- 
bonellis home. Give way, men.” 

Swift as an arrow the white boat flew forward with its muffled 
oars, and for a moment was a light streak upon a tall wave which 
wafted it away into darkness. 

What had happened ? What had been said ! Why this sud- 
den tightening of every heart, this breathless silence, this grasp- 
ing of oars with quickening stroke and hands unnerved ? 

No one dared ask a question of the other, no one dared give 
words to the fear which was tugging hard at his labouring breath. 
Each man bent to his oar in this strange forced silence, till the 
toil was over of rounding the headland and the boat glided into 
smoother water; then the ciew rested and waited in the silent 
darkness for some guiding voice or sound. 

“ To starboard, lads !” said Harold. “ There lies the Alert ; 
she hears us — she has put up a light.” 

His tone was calm, yet it vibrated with that living thrill which 
in moments of deep excitement threads the human voice with a 
fire that burns upon the ear and heart. 

In another moment or two they were along side the cutter, and 
a voice hailed them, asking who they were. 

“ Boat from Langarth,” answered Harold — “ come for Mr. 
Carbonellis.” 

There was no reply ; the sailor wffio had hailed them drew back, 
and, after a slight stir and whispered talk, an officer took his 
place and leaned over the bulwarks. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


83 


“ You are come for Mr. Carbonellis,” he said, in a grave voice. 
“ Yes, I am thankful you have arrived in time, otherwise, bound 
to obey orders as we are, we must have taken him to sea with 
us. Anticipating that, we have done what we could in a rough 
way.^’ 

But here he stopped, and, turning away, gave some orders 
in a voice inaudible to Harold and his crew. After a short 
interval, which yet seemed terrible in length, the tramp of men 
was heard, and Harold saw the officer stand aside bare-headed, 
while others grouped around him uncovered also. Then a pro- 
cession of four men came forward, bearing something dark and 
long between them. 

“ Are you ready ? ” demanded the officer, his grave face once 
more leaning towards the boat from the gangway. 

“ Ay, ay, sir ! ” was the answer. 

Beady for what ? No one asked the question. Every heart 
was beating loud, every face was pale. Harold stood up bare- 
headed and speechless. In another instant there was lowered 
amongst them and caught by trembling hands a rough and light 
coffin, unlidded. Within it lay the corpse of Tristram Carbon- 
ellis — the moonlight showed them his dead face, shining on it as 
it shines on ice. 

The expectation of some great horror had sat upon them all, 
paralysing speech ; but imagination ever falls short of reality. 
Not a man there whose heart had quivered that night undei 
shadowy terrors but felt now that hope had never entirely 
deserted him; still his gloomiest forebodings had never fore- 
shadowed such a sight as this. 

The shock was terrible. Unable for a time to speak, Harold 
knelt by his dead friend in overwhelming anguish and bewilder- 
ment. When he raised his face, it was nearly as white as the 
one over which he had bent. 

“We did not know of this,” he said, in an unnaturally calm 
voice. 

“ I am very sorry if that is the case,” returned the officer. “ I 
thought you had heard the truth from our boat, which must 
have met you at the head of the harbor. It is a very sad 
misfortune, and it happened in a strange way.” 

“ Yes ? ” said Harold interrogatively. 

“ I am extremely sorry, but I fear I cannot give you all the 
details now ; we are under orders to sail at once. I can only tell 
you simply that it was an accident.” 


84 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ Was he shot ? ” asked Harold. 

“ Yes — a pistol went off we scarcely know how. The poor 
young fellow who caused the accident is quite delirious with 
grief and horror. I doubt if he will ever recover the shock — his 
nerves are so shaken. The poor lad is only eighteen.” 

Harold heard this in silence ; at that moment he had no pity 
for the innocent slayer of Estrild’s brother. 

Perceiving this, the officer drew back, and a short colloquy 
ensued between him and the commander, who was pacing the 
deck. It was the latter who now came to the gangway ; and, 
removing his cap, he stood bare-headed before the pale presence 
on which he looked down. 

‘‘You are anxious to hear particulars of this sadly fatal 
affair,^’ he said, in a grave voice which seemed to hide anger 
rather than grief. “ For my own part, I regret bitterly that I 
ever yielded to Mr. Carbonellis’s entreaty, and permitted him to 
come on board my ship.” 

Anger broke his voice here, and he half turned on his heel, 
but faced the dire result of his imprudence again with a slight 
shrug of impatience. 

“ Mr. Carbonellis was very excited, very eager to join us, and, 
having given me some information useful to the service, I felt 
myself scarcely at liberty to refuse his request. I assure you there 
is no one can deplore this fatal result more than I do.” 

He paused, as if thinking he had said enough. To express re- 
gret, to confess that even some degree of blame might be thrown 
on him, appeared to his mind — perhaps as captain of a ship — the 
height of magnanimity. But to Harold his speech seemed selfish 
and cruel, as it showed that he was considering the terrible event 
only in the light in which it affected himself. The cutting down 
of a young and happy life, the grief and horror awaiting the 
opening of Estrild’s eyes to the light, were sorrows that had not 
touched his heart. And these regrets and this half-expressed 
self-reproach told in fact nothing of the truth that Harold was 
burning to know. Was he holding back an explanation pur- 
posely ? Was there something with regard to this dire event 
which he was striving to hide ? 

The suspicion sent a hot throb of indignation through Harold ^s 
veins. 

“ I can understand,” he said — and his voice grew deep and 
angry — “ that you feel some grief in looking down on the dead 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


35 


face of a friend who has met his death on board your ship, but I 
cannot understand why you are holding back the details due to 
his sister and myself. 

“ I am holding back nothing, sir,” returned the other haugh- 
tily. 

“ But you have told me nothing,” retorted Harold in anger. 

“I have said it was an accident — a pure accident. I have no 
time now to enter into details. I am infringing on my duty in 
delaying to parley with you so long.” 

He turned, and in a stentorian voice gave an order, which was 
instantly followed by the hoisting of a sail. Then he came to the 
gangway again. 

“ I would advise you to get out of tlie way,” he said ; in a 
moment your boat will be in danger.” 

“ You are aware that there will be an inquest,” returned Har- 
old, his voice quivering with indignation ; and you will be called 
upon then to give the information which you refuse me now.” 

His Majesty’s service comes before all other duties, sir ; but, 
if I am able to return to port in time for the inquest, I shall be 
quite ready to give all the information in my power.” 

“ And you will also have to give up the man who has commit- 
ted this murder,” said Harold, in a firm tone, so full of loud 
wrath that it passed over the captain’s head and reached the ears 
of a little group of men standing near the mainmast. 

Among these there was a sudden movement, a sudden cry ; 
and, peering through the dim light, Harold fancied that he saw 
two sailors stoop and lift a prostrate figure, which they bore away. 

“ There has been no murder, but only a sad, a deplorable mis- 
fortune,” said the captain, in a shaken voice, as, after glancing 
for a moment in the direction whence the cry had proceeded, he 
turned once more towards Harold : “ and I have no man to give 
up. Poor boy ; he is but a child ! Your cruel accusation would 
be unpardonable if— if ” 

“ If I had not cause for making it,” interposed Harold fiercely. 

“ You are unjustifiably angry, Mr. — Mr. ” 

“ Olver,” interposed Harold again. “ Perhaps you will giv€ 
me your name V 

“ James Armstrong, lieutenant in his Majesty’s Navy, and 
commander of his cutter the Alert, 

“ Thank you,” said Harold. “ I am glad of your name, as th6 
coroner will know whom to summon as a witness when the in- 


36 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


quest is held. Now I demand the name of the member of yout 
crew, whether man or boy, whose hand did this ghastly deed.” 

As Harold said this he stood with one foot on the thwart of 
the boat, his face, which had paled with anger, standing out white 
as snow against the black side of the ship. Above him stood 
Captain Armstrong, with face equally white and mien more de- 
termined ; but his gaze passed over Harold, and was fixed on the 
pale silent figure of Tristram Carbonellis. 

“ In that presence, Mr. Olver ” — and he pointed towards it — 
“ I will not quarrel with you ; neither will I, at your insolent re- 
quest, give you the name of any man or boy among my crew, now 
under my command, in this ship. The morning is breaking ; I 
bid you good day, sir ; our interview is ended.” 

‘‘You are screening an assassin !” shouted Harold, as Mr. 
Armstrong turned away. “ But even the captain of a ship has 
to live under the law of the land.” 

“ On shore maybe, sir,” interposed one of Harold^s crew, “but 
not at sea ; and the captain is off to sea in a moment ! Give way, 
lads, or we shall be run down.” 

This was true enough ; for the Alert swung round as he spoke, 
her black prow threatening to engulf them ; and, with oars hur- 
riedly dipped in the water, they had to labor hard to escape the 
danger of being cut down. 

Harold sat by his dead friend, his heart swelling with silent 
indignation and grief ; he dared not attempt speech, lest he should 
burst into tears like a woman. 

But the men were less reticent, and, as they cleared the path 
of the cutter, which dashed forward proudly with sails set, they 
broke out with a yell of hatred, a groan of horror and disgust, 
which passed far over the sea after the departing ship. 

“Ah,” roared young Prior, as he clinched his fist and shook it 
towards the figures faintly visible on the deck, “ you are hiding a 
murderer among you ; and, unless you cast him out like J onah, 
you are doomed men I Your ship will go to the bottom as sure as 
there’s God’s light in the sky.” 

“ Well, now, if the Squire — poor dear young man — had only 
stuck to his friends, this wouldn’t never ha’ happened,” obsorveid 
another of the crew. “ This comes of standin’ by sich gashly 
trash as Preventive men — Crumell’s dogs and Sarrasins.” 

“ Cromwell’s dogs” and “ Saracens” are terms bestowed by 
Cornish folk on vile and obnoxious individuals ; and at another 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


37 


time Harold might have smiled to hear these epithets hurled thus 
at the whole Preventive service. 

“ It is certain,” he said thoughtfully, “ that your master was 
not killed in any fair fight with smugglers, or Captain Armstrong 
would only too gladly have said so.” 

“ Killed by smugglers 1” cried two or three of the men indig- 
nantly. “ There ednT no cowards among they I Though the 
Squire did turn agin ’em, and forgit all the years — times out of 
mind — when the Carbonellises were friends to the fair traade, yet 
there wadn’t a man among ’em who would ha’ touched a hair of 
his head.” 

Harold believed this. Wild, daring, and brave the Cornish 
smugglers had ever proved themselves to be, but their worst 
foes could bring no accusation against them of cruel assassina- 
tions, secret murders, and revengeful deeds, such as had occurred 
on other coasts among men of rougher breed. 

“ Ko smuggler’s hand has taken that dear life !” said young 
Prior, as his eyes grew dark and angry. ‘‘ It is some villain 
aboard this ship that lias done it ; and the captain is screening 
him and hiding him, and helping his flight to another land this 
very minute, while we with broken hearts are taking home the 
corpse his wicked hand has made. Look there, comrades,” he 
added, turning suddenly to the east — “ there’s the blessed sun 
rising out of the sea ; and, so sure as that sun will travel up the 
sky, and go down into the sea again in the west, so surely will 
that man’s life end in blood. He may escape this time, but 
judgment will overtake him at the last.” 

A general assent ran from lip to lip, mingled with a groan of 
righteous wrath at the remembrance that the slayer was escaping 
safely now, at this awful moment, while they, with weary woful 
hearts and hands, were laboring in a heavy sea to bring a dead 
master to his home and lay him before his sister’s face. 

Every thought of Estrild and her coming agony brought a pang 
of sheer physical pain to Harold’s heart. How should he break the 
truth to her? How should he meet her and lead her to face this pale 
burden, once her dear living, loving brother ? He could not think it 
out ; he could form no plan of action ; he felt he must leave it all 
to chance, and hope that with the terrible moment would come the 
inspiration of words of comfort. His own mind was dazed, con- 
fused, deadened by the very excess of his grief, and there was no 
clear remembrance in his brain of the imperfect narrative given 


38 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


him by the officers of the Alert. Hence, as the boat was rowed 
on swiftly beneath the grey dawn and on the tumbling sea, his 
thoughts, like the rolling waves, rose and fell and reached no aim 
and struck no shore. All within him was a heaving darkness, 
thought on thought heaped confusedly, with only here and there 
a flash of light showing him the goal of pain towards which he 
floating. 

As the light grew clearer, so did the burden they bore grow 
before their eyes a larger, crueller, ghastlier thing to carry home 
beneath the morning sun. While the darkness lasted they had 
talked of it, looked down on it, and wondered over it, but, now 
that the sun was shining on that white face, all eyes were averted 
from it, and a solemn awe fell upon their anger, softening it to 
grief for the living more than for the dead. 

The green heights of Langarth were gleaming in the sun, and 
the smooth beach of white sand at the foot of its rugged cliffs lay 
glistening like crisp snow in its beams, when the boat crept in 
guiltily on top of the crested waves. As she neared the shore, 
the meAs weary hands wavered and shook, their strokes grew 
slower and slower, the oars went down into the tumbling waves 
and rose agarn as uselessly as though they were but straws play- 
ing in the water. 

Harold saw the hesitation of the crew, and roused himself to 
speak. 

“ I will land,’’ he said, “ and go up to the house first, and pre- 
pare Miss Carbonellis to bear the shock ; meanwhile you must 
remain here — a little under the cliff if possible — till I return or 
send you directions.” 

‘‘ All right, sir,” answered the young man Michael Prior. 
“ But, when you speak to Miss Estrild, please, sir, be mindful 
not to lay this crime to the charge of his own people. You won’t 
forget, sir, what the officer said who spoke with us flrst — how 
Twas some one — some boy, he said — aboard the ship that did it V 

Harold turned on him a bewildered gaze ; it required an effort 
to bring this back to his recollection — to hold indeed anything 
upon his mind but the one overwhelming thought that he had to 
see Estrild and tell her the terrible truth. 

I will remember,” he answered hurriedly. “ I will take care, 
Michael, not to confound the innocent with the guilty. How 
row to the landing-place as quickly as you can.” 

This lay within a tiny cove, crescent-shaped, on either side of 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


39 


which huge cliffs stretched their sheltering arms, breaking the 
force of the great waves that -rushed upon them from the outside 
sea. In this little bay the waves ran in with a glad sound and 
broke softly on its white shining sands, while the cliffs above 
were green and fragrant with many kinds of sea herbage. Down 
the face of the cliff, winding among rocks and bushes of golden 
gorse and broom and white hawthorn, ran a zigzag narrow 
path, worn by many feet, and cut in the old times before the 
memory of man. 

As the boat rounded the jagged peaked height on the eastern 
side, and came in full view of this sequestered cove, lovely in the 
morning sun, its shining sands smiling at the inrushing of the 
soft glorious sea, Harold’s heart misgave him ; the gladness, the 
joy, the life that seemed springing from earth and sea and sky 
were too bitter a contrast, and for a moment his head sank upon 
his hands and all around him grew dark as night. 

He raised his eyes to see Estrild coming slowly down the 
winding path, with face turned seawards and gaze fixed wonder- 
ingly on the boat. 

The men saw her, and every oar instantly stopped its stroke. 
Then Harold and Michael rose by one impulse, and stood before 
the coffin to screen it from her sight. But they were too late. 
The slight figure they were watching stopped suddenly and 
gazed at them with wild eyes ; then a piercing shriek rang over 
the sea, and they saw her throw her arms upward and fall upon 
the path. 


CHAPTER YL 

When Estrild returned to consciousness, Harold was leaning 
over her ; and his eyes met hers so full of tender anxiety and 
love that her first impulse was to reassure him by saying faintly — 

‘‘ I am well — quite well ; do not be alarmed for me.” 

Then she half rose, leaning on his arm, and turned a quick 
frightened glance towards the sea. 

It lay spread out before her, a divine expanse of blue, the 
deep mirror of a cloudless day, its swelling waves bearing for- 
ward softly to the shore only the innocent whiteness of the spray, 
which adorned their long ridges like sparkling jewels or rose like 


40 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


snowdrops from their liquid green. Across the whole heaving 
field, from the soft rush of the waves on the white sands to where 
they dashed upwards agahist the blue dip of the sky at the hori- 
zon, no black speck of boat or hull of ship was visible. 

With a quick passionate sigh Estrild turned her eyes from the 
blue solitude of the sea, and fixed them in questioning pain on 
Harold’s face. 

‘‘ I saw the boat,” she said ; “and — and there was something 
in it I could not understand. It frightened me — I think I 
fainted. That was because such a dreadful fancy seized me ; but 
— but it could have been only a delusion. The sun was in my 
eyes, and it seemed to lift up a face from the boat. Oh, Harold, 
Harold, you are not speaking — you are not telling me it is but a 
dream 1” 

“ My dear, dear Estrild, try to be brave.” 

“ No, no ; there is no need for courage. After a night of ter- 
ror, one is full of fancies ; and the sun dazzled me, and the sea- 
mist wreathed itself into a strange shape. Harold, speak !” 

“ My dearest, I cannot speak to deceive you ; what you saw 
was no delusion.” 

The girl gazed at him with face growing to the hue of snow, 
yet onoe more she grappled with a last faint hope — once more 
she refused to believe the truth. 

“ Then some poor man is killed,” she said : “ and you are 
cruel not to assure me that Tristram is safe on board the cutter.” 

“ My darling, how can I dare mock you with false Lopes ? You 
yourself saw our sorrowful burden only too plainly. I wish I 
could have spared you the pain ; but you looked down from the 
height into the boat, and the sun was shining on all that 
there is left of the truest, kindest, bravest heart that ever beat.” 

There was no answer now ; she slipped from his arm to the 
ground, and sat there with eyes turned seawards, and a frozen 
look of white sorrow on her face, which made her seem a statue, 
all thought and feeling fixed in stone. 

Harold knelt by her side in silence, in patience mastering his 
fears, waiting till she should turn to him for comfort. The mo- 
ments went by hot with agony, and yet slow and cold as water 
and time are to a drowning man. Harold racked his very heart 
meanwhile for words of consolation ; but grief and horror choked 
speech. Language seemed to him now as light and vain as the 
withered leaves which the wind caught up and swirled away on a 
contemptuous breath. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


41 


At last a faint color rose in the stony whiteness of Estrild^s 
face, and Harold, watching it, felt .a deep sigh of relief break 
from his lips ; but she did not seek for comfort or remove her 
fixed gaze from the sea. 

“ So you have let him die,” she said bitterly and slowly ; ‘‘ and 
he was your friend and my brother !” 

•‘Estrild,” he cried, striving to put his arm around her, “you 
are wild with grief — you know not what you are saying !” 

“ You have let him die ! ” she repeated, freeing herself coldly 
from his embrace. “You went out to save him, and you have 
brought him home dead ! Do you expect me to be grateful ? ” 

The horrible cruelty of her words struck Harold like a blow, 
so stupefying his senses that for a moment he did not see their 
unreason. Then a strange rush of pity came over him, as he 
nerved himself to bear this new strange shape that her grief had 
taken. 

“Come home with me,” he said gently; “and as we walk I 
will tell you all that has happened — so far as I know it myself.” 

She rose at his bidding, without looking at him, without 
acceptii^ his offered help, and walked by his side cold, pale, and 
silent; wiiile he poured out fast and eagerly the story of the past 
night of sorrow. 

“So he was murdered? ” she said calmly, when the tale was 
done. 

“ I hope not, Estrild. Bear in mind that Captain Armstrong 
and the young officer who first spoke to me both declared that 
his death occurred through an accident.” 

“But you have said that one of those men was rude and 
insolent, and appeared to you to be holding back the truth with 
rough resolve ! ” 

“ It is true — he did give me that impression,^ Harold answered 
relut antly. 

“ Are you too screening him ? ” Estrild asked, with mournful 
scorn. 

“ My dear, dear love, you have no pity in your grief !” 

“ Pity ! ” returned the girl. “ I give my pity to my brother, 
not to his assassin.” 

“ My dear Estrild, who is pitying him ? ” 

“ You are ! ” she answered, flashing her eyes on him at last, 
with a hot color rushing over her white face. “ I have noted 
your pity and sympathy in every word you have uttered.” 


42 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Harold stood still in his walk, his heart beating painfully. 

Could it be possible that there was some truth in her accusa- 
tion ! Was his soul stirred within him with pity for the young 
unknown hand that had wrought such misery, or was it only the 
natural reaction of his feelings rebelling against Estrild’s in- 
justice ? At all events, he owned inwardly, with a speechless 
moan, that his sympathy had for an instant flown from her to 
follow the departing ship, and hover over an agony greater, he 
fancied, than this cold stony grief of hers. He had looked for 
the tears, the sorrow, the softness of a woman whom he loved 
and could have comforted ; but when grief turned her to stone 
he found not a word within his hurt soul which he could speak 
tenderly. 

“You cannot answer me,” she continued, with increasing 
bitterness. “You have owned that Captain Armstrong was 
troubled, not for Tristram, but for his slayer. And, to save him 
from the consequences of his deed, he has sailed away whither 
we know not.” 

“ But, Estrild, he was under orders to sail,” Harold said, with 
a little shade of hardness in his voice. 

“How do we know that? We have only his word for it,” 
she answered sharply. 

“ Surely a gentleman would not lie to me at such a time 

“ Not to save some one he loved ? Oh, you do not know yet 
what love can do !” 

Her lip quivered as she spoke, and for the first time a softer 
look stole over her marble face. 

Harold was touched ; the pain he had felt at her words passed 
away — he longed again to comfort her. 

“Love will not make a man. lie, Estrild — at least I hope not — 
though perhaps it might a woman. Believe me, Captain Arm- 
strong spoke truly. Duty comes first to man in his position ; he 
was compelled to obey orders, and the ship will return soon.” 

“ Ah, but not with the assassin of my brother on board !” she 
said, with scornful emphasis. “ He will never be seen in Corn- 
wall again — he will be left safely in some other land.” 

Harold could not gainsay this — his own suspicions did but echo 
her words ; yet he tried faintly to argue against them. 

“ My dear Estrild, why imagine this unhappy lad anxious to 
q§;cape when innocent of all guilt ? He cannot be punished for 
an accident, no matter how fatal or terrible.” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


43 


As Harold said this, they had both reached the top of the 
ascent, and there lay before them the long green sweep of the 
park, dotted with noble trees, and, at the head of a far-reaching 
slope, the old mansion of Langarth standing with its shadows 
round about it, as though sleeping peacefully in the morning sun. 

At this sudden sight of her home, coming upon her in its new 
aspect, as masterless and desolate, the hardness of Estrild’s grief 
gave way, a sharp cry escaped her, and, trembling visibly, she hid 
her face in her hands. But she sought for no comfort from her 
lover. She stood aloof from him and, without the relief of tear 
or sob, battled with her passionate agony until she became calm 
again. 

Harold stood by in wondering speechless sorrow, not daring to 
offer her a word of consolation ; he felt she would have thrust all 
such words aside as importunate, and worthless as the dust which 
the wind scattered in their path. 

He ventured to come close to her, almost to touch her arm ; 
then her hands fell from her face, showing it very pale and reso- 
lute. 

“ Give me a moment,’^ she said, in a low quiet voice. “ Then 
I will answer your argument.” 

“ There is no need, Estrild. Why should we argue ? Why 
should we speak at all on this dreadful subject asked Harold 
passionately. “Will you not hurry homewards and then lie 
down and try to sleep 

“You mistake me strangely if you think I could do that. I 
never supposed you would misinterpret my duty in such a way.” 

“ Oh, Estrild, Estrild, you make things very hard and bitter for 
me !” Harold cried, yielding at last to the angry dismay tilling 
heart and mind. 

She looked at him as if not comprehending his words, and then 
spoke as though she had not heard them. 

“ Where is the boat V she said, turning suddenly seawards and 
shading her eyes with her hand. “Where have you hidden 
Tristram? When I fainted you told the men to hide from my 
sight.” 

“ I wished to spare you, Estrild,” returned Harold, his voice 
quivering with emotion and tenderness he vainly hoped to hear 
in hers. 

“ You do not understand me,” she said, passing her hand over 
her brow as if to sweep away some pain. “ There can be no 


44 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


childish sparing of feelings for me now. I have to act, not weep 
or wail or shut my eyes in sleep because there are sad sights to 
look on. You have not answered me. Where is he ? Where 
is my dead brother ? ’’ 

Without an attempt again to soothe, to comfort, or to spare 
her, Harold replied to her appeal in the simplest words. 

I ordered the men to hide beneath the cliff and wait there 
till I gave them a signal that they might come on to the house.” 

“ Then give the signal now. Tristram and I will enter Lan- 
garth together,” she said. I will wait here for him.” 

Harold looked at her face — the face he had thought the 
tenderest and sweetest in the world — and he saw that it was 
white and unflinching, and he knew that all expostulation would 
be vain. 

“ As you will,” he answered ; and, going to the verge of the 
cliff, he fluttered his handkerchief in the wind and called aloud 
on Michaefls name. 

But there was no response. 

“ They cannot hear you or see the signal from this point,” 
Estriid said impatiently ; and, before he could stretch out his 
hand to hold her back, she had sprung to the giddy verge of an 
overhanging rock and stood there unflinching, with a sheer 
precipice of two hundred feet between her and the sea. 

With an agony indescribable Harold saw her slight figure 
sway upon this dreadful height, as she leaned over the verge 
striving to descry the boat. He stood immovable, not daring to 
approach her lest his steps should startle her and cause her to 
lose; her balance. So he watched in breathless anguish, till at 
last she drew back and turned her face towards him with a wan 
piteous smile. 

“They have seen me,” she said — “ they are coming.” 

“ Oh, Estriid, come back to the path ! Leave the cliff, I 
entreat you 1 ” he cried. 

“ They are lifting him very gently,” she answered, leaning 
over the verge again. “ They will not hurt him.” 

“ Estriid, Estriid, I implore you, come away ! ” 

She waved her hand in an impatient negative ; his tortured 
cry did but pass over her head like the wing of some importunate 
bird not worthy of thought or heed. 

He feared to speak again, for she was leaning so far over the 
precipice that, to his excited fancy, the movement of a leaf 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


45 


might suffice to fling her beyond the verge into the depths below. 
At length, with a heavy sigh of relief, he saw her raise herself 
from her bending attitude and stand erect for just a moment, 
with gaze still fixed downward ; then she turned slowly from the 
sea and came towards him. 

“ I could not come away till I saw he was safe. They have 
placed him on the sands now,” she said. 

Her voice was less firm, her lips were quivering visibly. 
Harold noted these tokens of returning softness thankfully, lie 
took her hand and strove to lead her gently towards Langarth ; 
but she drew back, saying, with an instant return of firmness — 

“ Hot without him. I shall wait here for Tristram. It is a 
steep ascent, but he will not be long in coming. They will carry 
him willingly ; they all loved him.” 

She sat down upon a bank of heather, her hands in her lap, 
her eyes fixed on the narrow path before her with a strange 
glistening expectation in them which was dreadful to see. 

Harold looked as her with such a mingling of grief and pain 
and wistful jealousy in his heart that he could scarcely refrain 
giving vent to the musings of his vexed spirit. Her words, 
“ They all loved him,” rang in his ears. Yes it was true — they 
all loved him. He himself would have given his life for him 
willingly ; and his sister loved him so dearly, so terribly, that 
now she was angry because he had not died in Tristram’s stead. 
And she could not bear to look into his face because he was 
alive and well and her brother was coming up the path, a dead 
man. Oh, it was true, and it was bitter ! And the poor love 
she had given him, which had flitted out of her heart now, was a 
mere pale shadow compared with the strong- rooted love which 
had grown about her life for years. Ah, he had no place in her 
grief for Tristram, no place in her thoughts, which were all 
wound about the white face coming slowly, slowly up the toil- 
some path towards her ! 

“ It is a long way, and I cannot hear their steps yet,” said 
Estrild, her voice breaking on his bitter musing and rousing him 
as from some painful dream. “ I want to tell you quickly, 
before they come, what I think and feel about — about that man 
you pity.” 

“ My dear Estrild, why should we talk of him with anger f ’ 
asked Harold wearily. “ Let us leave him to the law.” 

“ Which will not touch him. Ho, I must tell you 1 feel. 


46 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


I have thought it out ; I understand it now. The man wa® 
guilty, If he were innocent, Captain Armstrong would hav(j 
given him up to you. He would have said, ‘ Here is the man ; 
he is willing to stand any investigation, any inquiry — let him ba 
a prisoner till he is proved guiltless.^ Harold you have not done 
your duty by me and by Tristram. You should have seized that 
man. Now he has escaped us forever. 

Her head sank upon her hands, but only for an instant ; and, 
when she raised it, she fixed her tearless eyes as before on the 
steep path. 

Harold felt her words to be hard and unjust indeed ; her 
reasoning as to the guilt of the unknown might have truth in it, 
but there was none in her assertion that he ought to have seized 
the man. 

‘ ‘ Could I board a King’s ship and arrest one of the crew by 
forco ? ” he asked angrily. 

Perhaps not,” said Estrild, in a weary voice. “ But there 
will be no rest on earth for me till he be found. Oh, if I could 
but see him once — only once be assured that he is a human 
being ! ” 

“Estrild,” exclaimed Harold, startled more even by her 
strange tone than by her words, “ of what are you thinking ? ” 

“ Hark 1 ” she cried, star ting to her feet. “ Do you hear what 
they are singing P’ 

Yes ; llai'old heard and grew pale. It was the sad wild air 
that had haunted him through his night journey — it was the 
“ Crusaders’ Chant,” sung in soft, mellow Cornish voices to the 
words of a burial hymn. 

“ ‘ Sing from the chamber to the grave ’ — 

Thus did the dead man say ; 

* A sound of melody I crave 
Upon my burial day. 

“ * Sing sweetly as you travel on, 

And keep your footsteps slow ; 

The angels sing where I am gone, 

And you should sing below.’ ” 

The cortege was in sight now many feet below them still, 
winding slowly up the path and hidden sometimes by its abrupt 
turns or by the rocks and bushes that lined its jagged side. 

“ Are the men mad,” said Harold to himself, “ that they sing 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


47 


at such a time as this, and to that tune of all others in the 
world ? ” 

Estrild divined his thoughts, and turned her ashen -grey face 
at once towards him, 

‘‘ Do not stop them,” she said. “ It is a Cornish custom to 
sing in bearing the dead. Let them sing on — they are doing 
their best to comfort me.” 

And Surely the mournful chant had brought comfort, for tears 
were in her eyes and the bitter hardness of her voice had broken 
into tenderness. 

But I feared this singing to that strange air,” Harold began ; 
but she held up her hand to stop him. 

“We sing it always when a Carbonellis dies in — in this way. 
Prior must have told them who rode to Langarth last night.” 

“ My dear, dear Estrild ” 

“ Ah, I cannot talk — I cannot answer you ! ” she cried, in a 
dreadful whisper. “ He is coming — he is very near 1 Hush ! 
Let us listen.” 

“ * Then bear me gently to my grave, 

And, as you pass along, 

Remember ’twas my wish to have 
A pleasant funeral song.* ** 

The men were close upon them now, four of them carrying the 
rough coffin — Cornish way — by the hand, not on the shoulder. 
Every head was uncovered. 

Estrild stood up, and Harold put his arm around her ; then, 
with a burst of weeping for which he thanked Heaven, she clung 
to him ; and after one look, she hid her face on his shoulder from 
the sight before her. 

Solemnly the men passed on, too pitiful to look upon her grief 
— only the deeper tone of their voices told that their hearts were 
with her in her sorrow. 

“ * So earth to earth and dust to dust ; 

And, though my flesh decay, 

My soul will sing among the just 
Until the Judgment Day.’ ” 

Pitiful and brave the men lifted up their voices and rolled the 
hymn strong, great and victorious against the pale morning sky. 


48 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Comfort and hope sprang out of the sound. Even in death 
man is king, and the crown of life sits on his cold brow. 

The ancient nail-studded door was set wide open, and servants 
lined the hall as to receive a royal guest, as the young master oi 
I^ngarth, who had gone out in life and health, was carried ovel 
its threshold dead. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Estrild’s reproaches and her apparent coldness had stung her 
lover to the heart. Yet in her last few words, which betrayed 
the superstitious horror lurking amid her grief, and in the cling- 
ing touch of her hands, as at length she turned to him for help, 
he found a gleam of comfort. These things, like the straw upon 
the river, showed him, as he believed, whither the current of her 
thoughts tended. The mystery shrouding her brother’s death 
had brought down upon her like an avalanche all the hereditary 
gloom and superstition of his house, and she was irritated that 
no tangible evidence could be brought forward to disprove 
her agonized fear that her brother had fallen a victim to a 
dreadful power beyond all human ken. To have such a belief 
forced upon her was hateful ; hence her irritation, hence 'her 
bitter disappointment that the slayer of her brother was not 
seized and brought before her eyes to disprove by his veritable 
flesh-and-biood presence that the bounds of this world had not 
been passed, and no spirit from the “ other side ” had stepped 
across its awful threshold to compass his death. 

As Harold sat gloomily alone in the library, striving to eat 
the breakfast which Prior had set before him, he thus endeavour- 
ed to thread the labyrinth of Estrild’s thoughts and see in them 
a cause of her bitter injustice to himself. 

That her thoughts ran this way he felt sure ; and it was no 
argument against their strength and gloom to say that they were 
unreasonable and morbid. No, they must be fought with and 
conquered by a better way than wordy counsels against the folly 
of superstition. Such counsels he knew would fall into the 
dark vague terror of Estrild’s mind unheeded ; they would bo 
lost there as the light fall of a few flakes of snow is lost instantly 
in the sea. So instead of words there must be deeds ; instead of 
argument there must be proof. 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


4B 

The “ human being,” as she had passionately said, who had 
slain her brother must be brought before a Court of Justice, and 
his innocence or his guilt be proved by undoubted human evi- 
dence. In the eye of day, in the face of indubitable fact, the mists 
of superstition would be chased from her mind, and his own love 
would be herself again. 

The tender joy of the hope touched him almost to tears, and he 
forgot for a moment the estrangement of Estrild’s looks and the 
cold silence in which she had left him ever since she had shut 
the door against him and all the world, to be alone with her 
grief. 

But was this a time for him to be angry because she chose to 
weep alone and not in his arms 1 Well, if she would not accept 
comfort from him, she should at least accept help. He would be 
up and doing. 

But, alas, the spirit may by willing, but the flesh is weak ! 
From the moment when he had stepped into the fated boat on 
the Devonshire side of the Torpoint Passage he had not closed 
his eyes in sleep ; and each hour of the twenty t})at had passed 
since then had brought its share of weariness, excitement, danger, 
and grief. Even now, as lie forced himself to swallow food, he 
felt the exhaustion of fatigue in every nerve, and with intense 
sorrow he was fain to confess that an hour or two of rest was a 
necessity before he would be fit for the work that he had set 
himself to do. Meanwhile he would question old Prior as to the 
best course to pursue. He knew the people and the place, 
and would tell him to whom he ought to apply for aid in 
his enterprise. 

“ Yes, sir, I understand you,” said the old man, when Harold 
had explained his project. “You want to hire a boat and pur- 
sue the cutter. Well, the best man to help you in that is an old pilot 
called Daniel Pascoe ; he has a fast-sailing sea- worthy boat, and, 
if any man can put you in the right way to catch the cutter, he 
can.” 

“Where does he live. Prior ?” 

“ Down to Langarth ChUrchtown, sir. My son shall show 
you the way. Ah, Mr. Giver, there will be sad changes here 
now ! ” 

“ There will indeed, Prior,” returned Harold absently, 

“ Miss Estrild will be in the power of a bad man, sir.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked Harold turning to him now 
with roused attention. D 


50 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“I mean that Mr. Yicat is her guardian now; and, if ever 
there was a bad man that wore out good shoe-leather on God^s 
earth, he is one 1 I never thought to live to see Miss Estrild in 
that man’s hands.” 

“ Yicat ” repeated Harold anxiously. “ I have heard of 
him. He is reported rich, and he is related to the family, is he 
not?” 

“ Only by law, sir. His first wife was a sister of Mrs. Car- 
bonellis. She died and left one son ; by his second wife he has 
other sons and daughters.” 

Harold received this information as a matter of no great import- 
ance. He could not imagine any mere uncle-in-law interfering 
much in Estrild’s life, and, besides, in fourteen months she would 
be of age, and free, he supposed, of guardianship. 

“ I think we need not be afraid of this Mr. Yicat, Prior,” he 
said. “ A husband, you know, can stand between his wife and 
a bad guardian.” 

“ Oh, sir, I hope the best ; but this is a sad day for us all, and 
I fear it is only the beginning of misfortune ! ” 

“Now, look here, Prior,” returned Harold gravely — “I shall 
be much annoyed if any talk of that kind reaches your young 
mistress’s ears. She has real sorrow enough without being troubled 
by the superstitious fancies of ignorant people. I shall expact 
you to keep all idle tales in the regions to which they belong. By- 
the-bye, I thought we agreed that she was not to hear of the 
stranger who came to Langarth last night ? ” 

“Ah, sir, you and I hoped to keep that a secret ; but early this 
morning, before daylight, the guard of the up-coach told the 
lodge-keeper all the story of the dark rider who outraced the 
mail last night ! Then, when the light rose, the woman came 
up here and saw Miss Estrild ; and she sent for me and asked if 
that strange visitor had rung his warning note at our door. I 
could not answer ‘No ; ’ I owned that you had seen him, sir.” 

Harold heard this with an inward groan. Was it wonderful 
that Estrild met him with a moody spirit tinged with ail the 
superstitious gloom of her race ? And in his inmost heart, as he 
brooded now for a moment over the events of this black night, 
was he not obliged to own that a secret shadow of horror rested 
also on his own soul ? The voice he had heard in the library as 
he stood before the old picture might have been a delusion born 
of his heated fancy ; but it was not the least strange that it ap- 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


51 


peared to him to be a Tristram voice ; and, if it should be 
proved hereafter that this delusion came upon him at the moment 
of his friend’s death, it would ever remain to him an unaccount- 
able mystery. 

“Well, Prior, I am sorry, Harold said, “that this history 
should have reached your young mistress and vexed her heart at 
such a time. Doubtless it was this that made her go to the 
beach r 

“Yes, sir ; and I thought to get there first and warn you of 
her coming. But I was too late, though, knowing the tide was 
out, I ran the shortest way through the caves to the beach.” 

Harold did not question the old man further ; he perceived 
now that he had poured forth his story to the waiting crew, and 
they, in spite of all they had heard at the cutter’s side, had in- 
stantly accepted their master’s death as the supernatural doom 
which fell on all his race. So they bore him up the clifi* to the 
air of the “ Crusaders’ Chant,” the old sepulchral hymn which, 
like the wail of a sorrowful spirit, followed every Carbonellis to 
his last home. 

Harold felt now that in forcing Estrild to play this sad air to 
him he had been cruel He had thought to sweep away her 
superstitious fancies by imposing on her this task ; but he per- 
ceived now that it must have had the very opposite effect, and 
the fact would strengthen all the morbid terrors that filled her 
mind. If she had only told him at what calamitous times this 
sad chant was sung, then for worlds he would not have asked 
her to ring it out beneath her white fingers. Yet he could under- 
stand her silence, her unwillingness to let a single word of hers 
strengthen her unseen terrors. He recalled the brave effort she 
had made to play calmly and to lay no superstitious stress upon 
the fact that she was playing the fateful music that a wildly 
fanciful legendary people sang as the funeral hymn of her doom- 
ed race. 

“These Cornish folk are strangely superstitious,” said Harold 
to himself. “ Every rock and wild heath has its legend, every 
house its ghost, every mine its elf and goblin. Brouglit up amid 
a cloud of such wild fancies, Estrild’s spirit must needs be shad- 
owed by them ; but I will take her away from all this. London 
will shake the cobwebs from her brain. As soon as this terrible 
time is over, I must persuade her to be my wife at once. I am 
resolved she shall not stay alone amid all the gloomy recollections 


52 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


of this old place. In London she will forget them. Ah, yes, 
surely I shall make her forget them when she is all my own !” 

The grating of wheels and the prancing of horses on the broad 
gravel sweep without roused Harold from his reverie. He 
glanced at the window and saw a post-chaise and four reeking 
horses driven by two post-boys, so called, though they were, in 
5act, lean and battered old men. One of these dismounted and 
clamoured at the bell with clumsy hand. 

The sound grated harshly on Harold’s vexed ears. All his 
thoughts rushed in pained fear to Estrild’s room ; the clang would 
startle her sense bodefully with new terrors. 

“Now who can these blundering people be who pay us a visit 
at such a time V he said to himself angrily. “ Prior will send 
them away, of course.” 

But no ; to his surprise he saw the old man, with strangely 
scared look, open the chaise door and help a stout lady to des- 
cend. A gentleman, also stout, with a florid handsome face, fol- 
lowed her. Both entered the house. 

In another moment, as Harold rose in angry amazement. Prior 
had set the library door open and announced — 

“ Mr, and Mrs. Yicat 1” 


CHAPTER YIII. 

The stout lady remained timidly near the door, ; but the florid 
gentleman came forward with great composure. 

“Mr. Olver, I presume?” he said, in a pompous voice. 

Then, as Harold merely bowed in reply, he turned round to 
his wife. 

“ My dear, let me introduce you to Mr. Olver. You will be 
greatly interested, in making his acquaintance.” 

“ I am glad to see you. I mean I am sorry — at such a time, 
you know,” returned the lady, in a frightened way. “ I am sure 
I wish it hadn’t happened.” 

“ My dear,” said Mr. Yicat, “ pray reflect before you speak. 
Rebellion at all times is bad, but rebellion against Providence is 
really unpardonable.” 

At this rebuke Mrs. Yicat pushed her chair nearer to the wall 
and sat there silent. 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


63 


This is a sad dispensation, sir,"’ continued her husband, 
turning to Harold. 

“ To what are you alluding as a * dispensation ^ asked Har- 
old, his anger and contempt breaking through his voice. 

“ 1 allude, of course, to my nephew’s death, of which I have 
just been informed by that dear, affectionate, familiar old crea^ 
ture, Prior; but we went into no details. I presume it happened 
about a week ago ? ” 

“ It happened last night,” said Harold, shortly. 

“Dear me! Now that is strange — that is remarkable! A 
short illness, I suppose % ” 

In his exasperation "and grief Harold rose and walked to the 
window, and the question of Mr. Yicat’s was answered with his 
back to that gentleman. 

“ There was no illness. My dear friend lost his life by an ac- 
cident on board the revenue cutter. And I think,” continued 
Harold, turning now and facing his interlocutor with indignant 
mien, “ that this is not a time at which his sister can receive 
visitors.” 

“Quite so. I am glad to hear you say so,” returned Mr. 
Yicat, with much satisfaction. “It relieves me, you see, of the 
painful task of saying that at such sad times a bereaved family 
should be left to themselves.” 

Harold grew white. He thrust his hands into his pockets, 
for they tingled with a very natural desire to seize Mr. Yicat by 
the collar and fling him out of the window, and it required a strong 
remembrance of Estrild and of the solemn stillness of that sacred 
room above him to hold him back. With the thought of this in 
his heart, he refrained and forced himself to speak quietly. 

“ I acknowledge no right in you, Mr. Yicat, to question my 
presence here. My position with regard to Miss Carbonellis 
makes it a duty on my part to remain to protect her and carry 
out her wishes.” 

“ My dear sir, I am quite aware of your position ; but it ap- 
pears to me you are in amazing ignorance of mine,” returned Mr. 
Yicat, with exceeding suavity. “ Now don’t let us quarrel, but 
permit me to state the case simply. Miss Carbonellis is my 
niece — ” 

“ By marriage — by law only,” interposed Harold, sharply. 

‘‘Granted, by law; but I am her guardian also by law, and, 
my nephew being dead, I am now her sole guardian ; and I am 


54 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


also sole executor and sole trustee under her father’s will,” re- 
sponded Mr. Vicat, rolling out his words with slow unction. 
“ This is the position in which the law places me.” 

He paused a moment here as if awaiting some contradiction ; 
but Harold was in no condition to give him any ; he was in 
absolute ignorance relative to the truth or untruth of this state- 
ment. Seeing him silent, Mr. Yicat continued, in the same ex- 
asperating soft way : 

“ I have said sufficient, Mr. Olver, to show you that until ray 
niece comes of age — which will not be until she is twenty-five — 
I have a perfect right to question anyone’s presence in this 
house. But — don’t mistake me ” — putting up his hand to stop 
Harold’s speech — “ I have no desire tb do so with regard to your- 
self. In this, as in all other things, I shall consult my dear 
niece’s wishes ; and I hope she and I shall always be of one 
mind.” 

“ The man is lying,” said Harold, to himself bitterly. “ My 
poor darling, she shall escape from this thralldom quickly ! Once 
my wife, I defy him to injure her ! ” 

This was the young man’s thought, and it brought a quick fire 
into his eyes, and firmness to his voioe. 

“ Excuse me, Mr. Yicat,” he said dryly, “ but I shall await 
some confirmation of your statements from Miss Carbonellis be- 
fore I accept them as correct.” 

“ I can pardon your doubts, Mr. Olver. I am aware that you 
are only very slightly acquainted with my niece’s family afi'airs, 
or, indeed, with herself.” 

“ I have been engaged to Estrild for six months,” returned 
Harold, indignantly ; “ and I have known her nearly two 
years.” 

“ My dear sir, I know the whole history of your acquaintance 
with her,” and Mr. Yicat waved his hand toward him as if dis- 
missing the matter as a mere bagatelle. “ You and my dear 
nephew were college chums ; then, when Estrild was staying in 
London with a connection of mine. Lady Mem bury, you were 
introduced to her for the first time. That was — let me see — just 
twenty months ago. Then last summer you joined her and her 
brother in their excursion to Switzerland ; and it was during 
that tour that the engagement you speak of took place. Yes, I 
believe I am correct. Of course, as coguardian with her brother, 
it was my duty to ascertain all these facts ; and there was a dif- 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


65 


ference of opinion between him and me respecting them. He 
did not tell you that ? 

“No; I never heard him mention your name,” and Harokrs 
voice shook slightly as he spoke. 

A rush of indignant feeling, mingled with a thousand recollec- 
tions of that sweet and tender time when his love was young, 
had for a moment so quivered round his heart that he could not 
command himself to speak firmly. 

“Ah, poor Tristram was always very reticent as to his family 
connections,” observed Mr. Vicat, rubbing his hands together 
complacently as he regarded Harold’s evident discomposure. 

“ And so is Estrild,” broke in Mrs. Yicat, suddenly. “ 1 am 
sure I never was so surprised as when she sent for us.” 

“ Sent for you ? ” echoed Harold, staring in intense amazement 
at the hitherto silent awkward figure that had now broken forth 
into this strange utterance. 

“ Did you suppose we had come without an invitation ? ” de- 
manded Mr. Yicat, with immense dignity. 

“ I certainly did,” returned Harold, “ and, in spite of Mrs. 
Yicat’s assertions, I shall continue to suppose so.” 

“ Well, I don’t vronder to hear you say that,” burst out Mrs. 
Yicat, with a childish laugh, for it was such a queer invitation 
that I hardly knew how to take it myself.” 

“ My dear, my dear,” expostulated her husband, “ you permit 
yourself at times to make such strange remarks that really I 
shall be obliged to you if you keep silent. There was nothing 
extraordinary, I assure you, Mr. Giver, in my niece’s invitation 
except, perhaps, that she might have written it, instead of send- 
ing a sti’anger to our house to say that our presence was needed 
here immediately.” 

“ Yes, a most singular person, who would not give any name, 
and who made me quite nervous,” said Mrs. Yicat, hurrying her 
words out with great speed, as evidently in fear of a sudden 
check. “ I had been dozing on the sofa, and I awoke with sort 
of feeling that some one was looking at me like — like — What’s 
that thing in poetry, my dear, that kills people ? Oh, 1 know — 
a basilisk — yes, like a basilisk ! Well, and 1 was all of a shiver, 
and he was standing opposite to me ; and when I stared at him, 
he said : 

“ ‘ I have come to deliver a message. Your presence is need- 
ed at Langarth. Will you tell your husband that ] ’ 


56 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ And with that he was gone. And it was so odd and sudden 
that, when I rubbed my eyes and roused myself, I took it for a 
dream. There, that^s the truth. But Mr. Yicat took it seriously, 
and so we started in a post-chaise the next day. And — and here 
we are, at the cost of a pretty penny, too.’^ 

“ I don^t count cost where my niece is concerned, respond- 
ed Mr. Yicat, with a flourish of his hand. “And now, sir, you 
can comprehend why I observed that it was remarkable when 
you informed me that my dear nephew’s death was only last 
night. Naturally I had concluded that it was in consequence of 
his loss that my niece had sent for me.” 

“ She certainly never sent for you,” returned Harold, firmly. 
“ The whole thing is a mistake. Mrs. Yicat, as she rightly 
judged, was dreaming when she imagined the presence of a mes- 
senger from Langarth.” 

“Well, that’s just what I think,” began Mrs. Yicat, in the 
same hurried way, as if she expected an instantaneous stopper on 
her speech, which this time certainly arrived. 

“ My dear, I must insist upon your being silent,” interposed 
her husband. “ All this talk is very irrelevant to our purpose. 
We are here to take our natural and legal position as Estrild’s 
guardians, not to discuss Mr. Giver’s doubts as to a messenger 
from her having called upon you or not. ” 

“ Excuse me, I have no doubts on the subject,” said Harold, 
“ and a reference to Miss Carbonellis will settle the point.” 

“ Yes, I should like to ask her the question. I feel so odd 
about it altogether ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Yicat. “ No, Anthony, I 
won’t be stopped ! You can’t put a cork in my mouth always ! 
I will have my say out ! And I repeat that it was extraordinary 
that no servant could recollect letting that man in ; and he 
gave no name. To be sure, the milkman was at the door ; he 
might have come in then.” 

Mr. Yicat gave his big shoulders a slight shrug, as if to shake 
oflP the overflowings of his wife’s idle babble, and then addressed 
himself to Harold. 

“ Messenger or singular dream, if my wife will have it so, is a 
matter of little consequence,” he said, sententiously. “ The fact 
remains that my nephew is dead, and the duties of my position 
render my presence necessary to my niece. My first duty will 
be—” 

But he was stopped in his unctuous recapitulations of hia 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


67 


duties by a slight scream from his wife. At her delight at hav- 
ing accomplished one or two speeches without being smothered, 
she had removed from her modest seat near the wall, and be- 
taken herself to an arm chair near the fire. She was standing 
before this now, with her face flushed and a look of terror in her 
light-blue eyes. 

“ What is the matter now, Louisa ? ” asked her husband, 
sharply, his pompous manner and his suave delivery both lost 
in unmistakable rage. 

“ Matter she cried. “Why, I am frightened — that’s what’s 
the matter ! There is the gentleman I saw — or his picture — 
it’s all the same ! ” 

“ A man is not quite the same as his picture,” returned Mr. 
Vicat, with much contempt. “ You are dreaming again, I sup- 
pose.” 

“No, I am not. There is his potrait against the wall where 
I was sitting. I could not see it till I moved over here.” 

“ Do you mean this painting?” asked Harold, touching the 
fallen potrait of the Black Crusader. “ You could scarcely have 
seen this gentleman, I think.” 

He spoke in a quiet, mocking voice, but was vexed to feel that 
his heart was beating fast as he awaited her answer. 

“Yes, that’s the picture I mean. And it is exactly like him 
too. Dear me, it’s very trying to one’s nerves ! I wish people’s 
pictures wouldn’t walk about.” 

“ Louisa, I wish you would try to put one grain of sense into 
your ridiculous speeches,” said her irate husband. “ At times 
you make a hopeless idiot of yourself.” 

“ If I had not been idiot enough to see that picture standing be- 
fore me, and ordering us to come to Langarth, you would not be 
here at this minute ! ” retorted his wife, with some show of 
logic. 

“ Well, well, I will acknowledge that it is curious — there ! ” 
returned Mr. Yicat, soothingly as if talkingto a child. “ I 
presume it is some friend of the family depicted in fancy dress.” 
he continued, turning to Harold. 

“ I think not. It is a very old painting, and is supposed to 
be a portrait of a Crusader.”^ 

“ Ah, that is rather interesting and singular. And a remark- 
able face too the Crusader has — a good deal of electricity about 
him of the black kind. A man, I should say, to leave his mark oa 
his descendants.” 


58 


FROM TUB OTHER SIDE, 


“ Perhaps so/^ assented Harold. 

“ It is a mere case, my dear, of astonishing likeness,’^ — ad- 
dressing his wife, who sat very limp and frightened in her chair 
— “ no need whatever to make a wonder or a miracle of it. This 
gentleman in the black chain armor no doubt has his quiver full, 
like the rest of us ; and one of the arrows, flying through the 
centuries, sped to you the other day, winged with a message — 
that’s all.” 

“ That’s all !” repeated Mrs. Yicat, in a rasping tone. 

“ What’s all ? Who is talking nonsense now ? I don’t under- 
stand a word you’ve said ! No one fired any arrows at me ! 
That’s what you call talking over my head, I suppose !” 

“ Then, to speak at your level, my love, I will say that your 
visitor is doubtless a remote descendant of this gentleman de- 
picted here ; and he has been good enough to carry on the family 
likeness.” 

“ Oh !” said Mrs. Yicat, rubbing her nose with much irrita- 
tion. “ And if that’s the case he has carried on the family 
eccentricity too. Why didn’t he leave his name or his card, or 
at least knock at the door like a Christian ?” 

To this question no one responded. Mr. Yicat was examining 
the old painting curiously through his eye-glass. Harold also 
bent an earnest gaze on the worn, scarred face which looked out 
from an inscrutable darkness — for it had no background, and no 
light around it save that strange quiver of living light which 
seemed to come from the face itself as from a living man. Such 
an aspect of life shines rarely on a painted canvas, and only 
when some great master has limned the features, which perchance 
through love or sorrow have touched his heart and sent a light- 
ning thrill of pain from heart to hand. 

“ I am an amateur of paintings and handle the brush a little 
myself,” observed Mr. Yicat, with that air of conceit of uni- 
versal talent which emanated from his florid features and florid 
talk ; “and I am of opinion that this picture is not nearly so old 
as the Crusades. Indeed, there were no painters in England 
at that period.” 

“ It might have been painted in Italy,” said Harold. “ Crusaders 
traveled home that way. At all events, one can see that the 
painter’s hand drew from a living face — a face worn and marred, 
and with a great capacity for woe.” 

“A living face? Yes — a model who sat for the old Crusader, 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


59 


and most likely one of the arrows from his quiver who bore a 
great hereditary likeness to his forefather of the cross. The 
dress is historical and correct, copied perhaps from a missal ; but 
the portrait itself dates only, I am certain, from the sixteenth 
century. I must ask Estrild if any tradition in her family tells 
who sat for it.’' 

“ I must beg you will not speak to Estrild on the subject,” 
interposed Harold hurriedly. “ She is not in a fit state of mind 
to discuss a matter of such light importance.” 

“ Light !” repeated Mrs. Yicat. “ I don’t call it light when 
people are nearly scared out of their wits by folks walking into 
drawing-rooms who ought to be lying quiet with tons of marble 
atop of them ! So I give you gentlemen fair warning that I 
intend to sift the matter to the bottom. I shall question and 
cross-question Estrild till I get at the truth. And unless Mr. 
Yicat smothers me, like the babes in the Tower, I don’t see how 
he is to prevent my speaking to her.” 

Mr. Yicat’s answer to this outburst was another shrug of the 
shoulders, given with intense contempt, while Harold glanced 
at the garrulous woman with a kind of horror, his mind full of 
troubled thoughts as to the result of her threat if she carried it 
out. In Estrild’s present state of gloomy grief incalculable mis- 
chief might follow her foolish injudicious outpourings. The idea 
struck him that it might be possible to send her thoughts flying 
on another tack. 

“ I dare say the gentleman you saw will call on you again, 
and apologize for his abrupt visit,” he said ; “ and then you can 
ask him as many questions as you please . respecting his resem- 
blance to this old portrait, which doubtless represents a remote 
ancestor of his. I should surmise that he is a member of some 
collateral branch of the Carbonellis family. But why he should 
take upon himself to request your presence at Langarth is a 
mystery 1 can not fathom. All the rest appears to me simple 
enough. ” 

‘‘Well, perhaps, after all, he came in without knocking be- 
cause he found the door open,” responded Mrs. Yicat, in her 
childish way. 

“ Decidedly I should say so,” said Harold, smiling in spite of 
all the care gnawing in his heart. 

“ 1 know of no collateral branch of the family,” observed Mr. 
Yicat, “ Do you ? ” 


GO 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Harold made no reply, for at that moment the door was opened 
by old Prior, who announced that luncheon was served in the 
dining-room — a fact which made Mr. tind Mrs. Vicat rise and 
follow him with cheerful alacrity. 

Left alone, Harold took up the picture to replace it against 
the wall — for it had been carried to the window — and in doing 
this a slip of vellum or parchment fell from the broken frame. 
It was still in tolerable preservation, and, on opening it care- 
fully, he read this doggerel, written in black-letter, or old Eng- 
lish ; 

“When Cumberland and Cornwall meet, 

When man than horse shall prove more fleet, 

The rider lose, yet the race be won. 

Then hate by love shall be outdone. 

The curse I leave at last shall cease. 

And an unblest spirit rest in peace.** 

“ This was doubtless written in the days of witchcraft, when 
prophets were by no means poets,’’ said Harold to himself. 
“Now, shall I put it back into its old place, or shall I burn 
itr’ 

He decided on the first, not without a vague feeling of super- 
stition, to which he yielded unwillingly, calling in his own mind 
a mere veneration for the antique. To this reverence for 
antiquity he also attributed his copying the lines in his pocket- 
book before he carefully replaced the slip of parchment between 
the panel and the back of the painting, whence it had 
fallen. 

“ At all events, I will take care that Estrild never hears of 
this rhyming jumble of impossible events,” he said, as he clasped 
his pocket-book and hastened out on his quest for a boat and a 
pilot. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Daniel Pascoe was a wiry, weather-beaten old salt, with face 
brown as tanned leather, and hands full of sinews and knots, 
which had a grip of iron in their strength. He was sitting on 
the beech at Langarth, on an empty cask placed in the teeth of 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


61 


the wind, which he seemed to enjoy as he smoked the short black 
pipe. 

“ So yon want to overtake the cutter,” he said. “ Well, my 
boat can do that — only give her a fair wind. There’s a good 
capful brewing in the sky to-night; and, being January, you see, 
most likely it’ll be a nor’-wester. Will that wind suit you ? ” 

‘‘ That’s more than I can say till I know which way the cutter 
has sailed. Michael, you must go up to the coast-guard station 
and inquire.’^ 

“And do ’ee think they’ll tell ’ee up there, even if they 
know ? ” asked Daniel, taking his pipe from his lips to blow out 
a long whiff of smoke. “ They be poor critturs with regard to 
sense, they coast-guard men, though I won’t say they can’t fight 
when called on. Michael, my son, there edn’t no call for thee 
to go up to station to ax where the cutter es. I reckon theg 
knows well enough what folks keep a good lookout as to the 
whereabouts of thic craft.” 

“ Well,” returned Michael, “ I reckon I do. You see, sir, 
them that have a venture out at sea be the most likely wauns to 
know where a craft be that they need to keep clear of like : and, 
ef so be Dan’l have got a mind to speak out, as, being among 
sure friends, he will, we two needn’t go no furder to ax ques^. 
tions.” 

“ That’s so,” said Daniel, with a queer twinkle of light coming 
into his deep set gray eyes. “ And time was when no surer 
friends to fair traade was to be found anywhere than among the 
ould squires of Langarth ; and for their saakes, ef you’ve got a 
mind to come so close, sir, I’ll taake ’ee right athwart the cut- 
ter’s gun — the saeme ould gun as they fired laest night, may be 
live minutes or so too laete to do anything with ’en ’cept to 
waaste powder ; ” and here Daniel shook the ashes out of his 
pipe, and refilled it with a pleasant air of satisfaction. 

“ And so you positively know where the cutter is cruising 1 ” 
said Harold. 

Daniel nodded. 

“I reckon ef we sail right for the coast of Brittany, and 
stand off Morlaix harbor, we shall see that there craft lurking 
round waiting for a bark that’ll sail out of another port about 
fifty mile away. But Cap’en Armstrong he had sure word, you 
know” — and a gleam shot into the old smuggler’s eyes— “ that 
the ‘ Swift ’ would run into Morlaix, so there we shall find ’un 
for sartain.” 


62 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ Ah, I fear that false information has cost Mr. Carbonellis 
his life ! ” said Harold. 

“We are powerly sorry, one and all,’’ returned Daniel, “for 
that poor job ; but et esn’t a sin that can be laid to our chaarge. 
There’s waun aboard the cutter who have goet that blood upon 
his mind ; and, whether he be innocent or guilty, I reckon blood 
maakes a red stain that years caen’t wipe out. Ef the squire 
had stood by his awn people he’d be saafe and well this minute.” 

“ I won’t say that,” put in Michael, gravely, “ for a sure token 
came to Langarth laest night that death was on the road for a 
Carbonellis.” 

“ Ah, I heard tell of that, too,” said Daniel. “ And ’tis a 
mystery past book laming, that es. There’s heaps of gentry 
says ’tis aal a lie ; but it comes and its goes aal the same, though 
arguments enough be thrawed at it to blaw et ento powder. But 
we knaw, my dears, though twenty years or more may go by, 
and forgetfulness be springing up with grass on the Langarth 
graaves, yet, when a Carbonellis’ time es come, the Black Rider 
es as sure to be here as that death comes behind him.” 

Harold had remained silent, in the hope that by letting the two 
men converse freely he would perhaps gain some knowledge that 
would prove helpful to him ; but now he broke upon their talk 
eagerly. 

“ Has that horseman never been followed ? ” he asked. “ Has 
no one ever had sense or courage enough to take horse and ride 
after him, and discover the road he takes on leaving Lan- 
garth ? ” 

“ No living man has ever done that yet,” said Michael ; 
“ though I’ve heard say many have tried to overtake him both in 
coming and g^ing, but they’ve always failed. He slips away 
out of sight like a ghost or a sperrit ; and some say he is the 
laest.” 

“I can vouch for his being no ghost,” said Harold, “for 
he came across Torpoint Passage iif the same boat with me.” 

This assertion made old Daniel look at him with curious, 
searching eyes. 

“Did you touch him, sir? ” he asked. 

“ No, though I felt inclined to handle him and rather roughly, 
too.” 

“ Ah, sir, if you didn’t touch him you caen’t be sartain he wasn’t 
a sperrit. Sight es a desaiving sense ; ’tes when we handle things 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


63 


we knaw what they be maade of. Now there Ve been times at 
sea when IVe glimpsed a ship in the offing, all sails set and 
signal flying for a pilot, and IVe seen her plain as I see the sun 
now in the sky; but when IVe tried to run alongside and board her, 
then she faaded away. Her sails have fell down waun by waun, 
and she’d seem to sink slow in the sea, till there was aunly a 
bubble of foam and a curl of spray to shaw where she’d gone 
down. Then I knew there’d be a wreck of some good ship near 
by, and I’ve stood ofi* and on, waiting for it, and saaved many a 
dear life that way. But now, sir, to come back to business,” 
said the old man, checking himself suddenly — “ I hope you un- 
derstand that I don’t bargain for more than to bring ’ee in sight 
of the cutter. I can’t board her and take the man you want. 
I reckon ’twould be more’n a justice could do, for sea law 
esn’t land law. Even in Plymouth Sound I’ve heerd say the 
Mayor of Saltash es the aunly man that can board a king’s ship 
with warrants ; and he must go out en a boat with his silver 
mace that Queen Anne give’d un.” 

“ And that wouldn’t be no good, I reckon, in French waters,” 
interposed Michael, “where the ‘ Alert ’ will be cruising.” 

“ Right you are, my son,” said Daniel. 

“ Sse here,” exclaimed Harold chaflng with impatience — “ I 
am not going out with a warrant and a constable. I should waste 
hours in the endeavour to arm myself with such legal aids, and 
perhaps, as you say, I should find them useless. I leave all that 
matter to the coroner, who will do his duty doubtless. But I am 
resolved he shall have a fair chance for executing that duty. 
The assassin on board the ‘Alert’ shall not be landed in France 
and escape without at least my becoming cognizant of the fact, 
if I can not prevent it.” 

“ So you think, sir. Captain Armstrong will put this man 
ashore on the Brittany coast ?” 

“ I fear it. And I will find out whether or no he has com- 
mitted that crime.” 

“ I don’t reckon he’d ventur’ ’pon sich a course,” said Daniel, 
slowly. “ He houlds the king’s commission, so he’s answerable 
to two courts for his good conduct — court-martial, you see, and 
court of law. Ef he comes back to England he’s bound to bring 
that man ’long with him. Being captain of his own ship, he’s 
bail for him like now to the law.” 

“ Daniel, I grant your good reasoning, but I feel that Captain 


64 


FROM THF OTHER SIDE. 


Armstrong will fling every consideration overboard rather than 
not save the miserable man.’’ 

“ I never argify agin’ feelin’s,” said Daniel, pulling a huge 
silver watch from his fob and looking at it grimly, ‘‘ nor yet 
agin’ facts. Now the cutter have had six hours’ start ; but, since 
she’s the slowest auld tub in the navy, I reckon I can catch her 
afore she gets near enough to the French coast to send a boat 
ashore — more by token that the wind have been agin’ her all 
day, and is aunly now shifting to the nor’- west. I can be ready 
in an hour, sir, if you can.” 

“ Less time if you like,” said Harold eagerly, 

‘‘No; an hour, sir — no more and no less. I like to victual 
my boat before I go to sea, and I’ve to get my man and boy 
ready. You can slaip when you get aboard, sir. I can see 
that’s the first thing you want,” and Daniel glanced pitifully at 
the young man’s fagged, weary looks. 

“You are sure the ‘Alert ’ can not send a boat ashore till she 
gets ofi* Morlaix reiterated Harold anxiously. 

“ Ef you knowed the Brittany coast as I do, you wouldn’t be 
oneasy od that score, sir. And Morlaix lies four miles up the 
river — a long tug for a boat’s crew — and we could follow if you 
liked. Anyway, when we waunce sight the ‘Alert,’ no boat 
can leave her without our knowledge.” 

“That’s all I care for,” returned Harold. “Let me once get 
the cutter in view, I’ll never leave her till she is in an English 
port, and not then till I see that man dragged out of Captain 
Armstrong’s hands and lodged in jail.” 

/Daniel nodded quietly, as if he thought Harold’s present state 
of mind past reasoning with, and only to be soothed by giving 
him his own way. 

“ I’ll bring the ‘ Curlew ’ round to Morvah Cove, sir,” he said, 
as Harold strolled away. 

“ All right,” Harold answered. 

“ That’s the cove where we landed this morning, sir,” said 
Michael. 

“ And the caves from the park run down to that beach. Can 
we go home that way now ?” asked Harold. 

“ If the tide be low enough still, sir. But et is a rugged way 
and through black darkness.” 

“ But your father got to the beach this morning by that road, 
so I suppose I can traverse it, too, Michael ?” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


65 


“ Oh, father knows every inch and every turn of the caves ; 
and he didn't think of darkness, I reckon, this morning, when 
he came through them.’’ 

A few moments’ mpid walking brought them to the lonely 
white beach on which they had landed in the low morning sun 
with their sorrowful burden. All around lay a wan wilderness 
of gray rock, with tangles here and there of long sea-weed, and 
small clear pools holding pale sunlight. And among them, rush- 
ing to and fro, fell the soft surges of the sea, bearing in their 
sound all the sorrow of the years to come. 

With thoughts within him as troubled as the waves on which 
he looked, Harold stood for a moment to gaze on the heaving 
desert of waters that stretched away to the dim horizon. Then 
he turned to the rocks and noted the long reef that lay like a 
petrified giant lifting wan hands of stone among the shal- 
low waves, as if to guard the little harbor he had sheltered. 

“It is like Jaffa,” said Harold to himself. Then there rushed 
into his mind a thousand memories of Tristram, and of that 
pilgrimage to Palestine in which he had joined him — the wild 
chant of the Arabs, the weird chorus of the mule-drivers, the 
mournful cry of the camels who laboured beneath their loads ; all 
seemed borne to his feet in the mingled roar of many waters 
dashing upon the pale rocks around him. And, surging all about 
his heart like the waves upon the cliff, a multitude of sorrows 
oppressed him. Only yesterday his happiness stood on a sure 
foundation ; to-day it was shaken and ready to fall into ruin. 
Was it possible that Tristram’s life had meant love, peace, joy, 
and that all these were snatched away by -his death ? Surely 
not ! He would strive for his love with all the force of his soul, 
and his own strong hand and heart should defend her from the 
evil that threatened her. That pilgrimage to Palestine, whose 
pictures and memories kept passing through his mind, mingling 
with the surge of the sea and with Estrild’s image, which, 
phantom-like, flitted upon every remembered mountain and plain 
— could it be possible that Tristram had undertaken it, not witli 
the light mind of a modern man, but with the faith of ancient 
days, with the secret latent hope that, if he came with the heart 
of a true pilgrim to these holy places, the curse of which he 
never spoke that lay upon his race might be taken away 1 
Viewed in the light of all this new-fallen sorrow, threaded as it 
was with a dark line of superstition, this hidden motive for his 


\ 


66 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


journey seemed to Harold to break through all the light talk 
and laughter of that ame, and to stand like a gloomy spectre 
beside his friend in tho^^e serious hours when dangers beset them, 
or when thoughts too deep for words, like^ a cloud of witnesses 
fell upon them as their feet trod upon sacred ground. Then too, 
with a startled sense of something fateful, there broke upon his 
mind the memory of that wild, mournful chant, which, like a 
funeral march, had followed the steps of their pilgrimage. 

Ah, it was sad to think that now, with sorrowful, dim eyes, 
he could look into his friend’s brave heart and on the gloom that 
had shrouded it, and understand even somewhat vaguely, how 
every note of that wild music must have struck an echo in his 
soul which rose from graves ? And through it all he had kept 
silent, perhaps clasping faintly some new hope of life, some thin 
trust of escape from his doom, or perchance, in deeper despondency, 
battling with the shadow of death. 

“ And shall I let Estrild fall into such a snare of darkness as 
this ! ” said Harold to himself. “ Shall I permit her to imagine, 
in the depth cf her grief, that some mysterious fate has seized 
upon her brother — a fate which now will pursue herself 1 Ko. I 
may be going on a blind, useless chase, but I will follow it to the 
end, and fling this shadow from her life as surely as I live my- 
self. This stupid mystery, which would fall to pieces before in- 
vestigation, shall not stand an hour longer than I can help it. 
Not to fight against it would be to allow the thing to grow, and 
build a wall of separation between us. Ah ! it has cast a shadow 
of coldness already on our love.” 

Thoughts run fast, but words are slow in telling them. All 
these memories and feelings had coursed through Harold’s mind 
with lightning swiftness as he traversed the white sands, and 
paused now at a narrow cleft in the rocks where Michael stood 
awaiting him. 

“ This is the entrance to the cavern. Stoop low, sir, as you 
come in.” 

Harold did so, and found himself in a narrow passage with 
white, glistening sand underfoot, and having on either side a wall 
of jagged rock, and above a roof of rock so low that he had to 
keep his head bent as he walked slowly along. The light from 
the opening stole through it with a subdued softness, and the 
rush of the waves without sounded like the far-off echo of some 
distant sea. A clear stream ran through the white pebbles with 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


67 


sweet, tinkling music, as though rejoicing in having at last found 
its way to its ocean love. 

“ No horseman could ever pass through this place,” said Har- 
old, in a tone full or disappointment. 

Michael, who was leading the way, turned and stared at him. 

“No man straddled on a horse would ever try sich a path, I 
reckon,” he answered. “ Why, he’d knack hes head to jouds en 
two minutes. And as for a hoss, ef he waunce got en here, he’d 
have to be cut up en lerrups afore he could be got out again.” 

in the dim light Harold paused and looked behind him. The 
cleft by which they had entered seemed now no broader than his 
hand. The sea beyond it was a narrow strip of undulating blue ; 
a passing sea-gull shut it from his sight. 

“ I fancied, Michael, that queer fellow-traveler of mine might 
have ridden away through this place, but I see now it is impos- 
sible.” 

“ Aw, my dear,” said Michael, in his soft, caressing, Cornish 
voice, “ that’s a whisht notion, sure ’iiough I And you haven’t 
come to the oogliest ^bit of road yet. Ef the hoss now was a 
ghost like the man, I wouldn’t say nauthing agin sich a fancy ; 
but as it is — Lor’, I’ve seed men most nigh to break their hearts 
in rouling kegs along the oogly plaace we’re coming to, and a 
hoss would brak his neck the fust step he took, ef the life wasn’t 
knacked out ef un afore he got there. Here we are ? Now, sir, 
you strave to find your own way on, will ’ee ] ” 

But apparently a black, impenetrable wall of rock rose before 
them, barring the road and hemming them in on every side, save 
by the one narrow passage, through which some faint light still 
reached them. 

“ I should say there was no road to find, Michael ; but I sup- 
pose there is, since somehow the park can be reached this way.” 

“ Bide a bit till I’ve struck a light,” said Michael, taking a 
tinder-box from his pocket, and forthwith eliciting spai-ks with 
flint and steel. And, when at last the tinder caught fire and he 
blew into it to increase its power and catch the flame upon the 
sulphur match, Harold felt the wildness of the scene more vividly, 
and watched the play of yellow light on Michael’s handsome face 
with a mysterious sense of having beheld all this before in a 
dream-picture, or in some far-off time forgotten. 

“Now, sir, please follow me and Michael ascended three or 
four rugged, unhewn steps or ridges in the solid rocks ; then sud- 
denly he bent his head and disappeared. 


68 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


He had passed through a rent or fissure in the rocky wall, and 
on following him, Harold f^unc. himself in a large cavern black 
with a darkness made more horrible by a hoarse murmur which 
rolled around the walls like approaching thunder. 

‘‘The tide has followed us fast, said Michael, “and 'tis a 
rough sea running through that narrow road behind us now. 
Ah, my dear, many’s the time I’ve seed some rare good stuff 
stowed away in this here place — a safe place too it used to be en 
the ould times !” 

“ Safe indeed, I should say,^’ returned Harold, looking around 
the cave as Michael, with all the satisfaction of a guide, lighted 
numerous matches and held them aloft. “ I should be sorry as 
a Preventive service man to find myself pursuing smugglers into 
this hole.’' 

“ And a man might be trapped here, sir, like a rat ef the tide 
was coming in. Why, en haaf a minute or so from this time the 
sea will be pouring in through that there rift we’ve crept through 
like a tearing flood. And in rough winds and high tides the 
sea howls and roars round here till a man’s heart grows faint 
with fear to hear it. There’s aunly waun escaape out of this 
here cave in high tide ; and, ef the smugglers took that away, 
any man shut in here was a dead man as sure as there’s death in 
drowning.” 

As he spoke, a shower of spray dashed through a cleft in the 
rock-wall, followed by the swift rush and roar of the wave as it 
fell back from the grim barrier which for a moment still re- 
strained its onward fury. 

“I reckon we’d best waaste no more time,” observed Michael, 

“ aunless we’ve got a mind to be drowned corpses. The sea 
don’t wait for any man’s talk, even ef ’twas Solomon hisself 
praiching. Here’s the ladder, sir ; hould on to it for bare life, 
and come along quick. The tide is roaring in, hungering for our 
lives.” 

It was true that the sea-spray which had sprinkled their faces 
with its salt touch had been quickly followed by wave upon wave, 
which rushed through the cleft in the rocks and fell upon the 
floor of the cave with a roar that filled it as with echoing, deafen- 
ing thunder. It was a relief to find themselves above the de- 
vouring, rolling, creeping death, whose inrushing sound in its 
mighty strength bewildered the senses. 

The upper cave, which was entered from beneath by the 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


69 


ladder up which they had climbed, was not totally dark ; a faint 
diffused light glimmered through it, and along its sandy floor the 
same little stream ran, which by some unseen course pursued its 
way among the dark windings of the rocks, till it reappeared in 
the passage they had first traversed. From there it made its 
final way to its goal, the all-devouring sea. 

“ Now 1 reckon, sir, ’’observed Michael, ‘‘ you do feel pretty sure 
by this time that no four-footed beast in nature could ever ” 

“I am quite satisfied 0*6 that point, Michael. I am only 
wondering why that ladder is left there. A man could leave his 
horse and escape that way.” 

“Well, he might,” returned Michael, pondering it, “ef he 
knowed the way, and ef the tide suited. As for the ladder, 
'tesn’t no harm to laive it there now. ’T would be aisy enough 
to pull et up and drown a Coastguard chap any time waun had a 
•mind to. It stands there handy, you see !” 

Michael said this in his sweetest, most caressing tone, as if it 
would be rather a kind deed thus to trap a Preventive man. 

“ ’Tessn’t a heavy ladder to left, neither,” continued Michael, 
as he walked on. “ Waun pair of hands would do it. But 
lor’, there esn’t no call to discourse over this ladder nowadays, 
for I reckon all our good times be over ! ” 

“Didn’t a heavy sea sometimes roll the casks about and smash 
them in those good times, Michael ? ” 

“ Never that I heerd tell of, sir. When the tide went out, 
they was always right and tight as drums, aunly they warn’t 
empty, like the high-sounding things.” 

During this talk the light had perceptibly increased about them, 
they were no longer only a voice to each other, sounding curiouslv 
loud among the dark echoes, but two stalwart figures visible no\» 
to the eyes of each. And, though the light was still dim and 
veiled, it was clear enough to show the wildness of the place, its 
grim and savage grandeur, its huge bare rocks, and its tinkling 
stream passing on into darkness, like a voice singing as it went 
down to the depths of death. 

Another moment, another sharp turn, and a blaze of light 
dazzled their unaccustomed eyes. Long fronds of a dark green 
fern hung from the roof — the Asplenium marinum — and shorter 
tufts clung to the sides, and green mosses were beneath their 
feet, and the stream bubbled and quivered with the sun’s life, 
which it gave back to flowers on its brink. 


70 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Right before them was a sort of natural archway, through 
wliich was seen, not a glade of the park, as Harold had expected 
but a long reach of the sea, glistening with many colors, and 
tossing its cloud-shadows from wave to wave. Framed as it was 
by the rocky arch, the picture was divine as though touched by 
the mysterious glory which fell from the face of the heavens as 
it mirrored itself in the shining waters. 

In spite of the heaviness hanging about his heart, Harold was 
touched by the beauty of the scene, and, shading his eyes with 
his hand, he stood for a moment contemplating it in silence. 

On emerging from the arch he found himself on the very verge 
of the cliff, and checked his steps almost in consternation. 

Michael smiled at his dismay. 

“ You thought these caves ran inland, sir, but all along they’re 
only just inside the cliff. Please to walk carefully — a false step 
might throw ’ee down ’pon the rocks below, and you’d have to be 
picked up in a basket then, I reckon.” 

“ I should like to sit here through a summer day, Michael,” 
said Harold, turning away reluctantly — ‘‘ if I were happy, and 
Estrild were by my side,” he added mentally, with a retro- 
spective sigh. 

They turned sharply from the sea by a narrow path skirting a 
projecting rock, and then there stretched before their view a 
singular rocky valley or chasm which ran up through the park, 
narrowing slightly in its inland course. It was a strange freak 
of nature, a frightful rent in the green earth showing the iron 
sides of the dark cliffs which towered up on either side in gray 
precipitous walls, fringed towards their summit by clinging 
bushes of gorse and hanging tufts of heath and sea-pinks. Down 
in the lowest deep of the gorge meandered the stream whose soft 
silent power had doubtless wrought this miraculous path for 
itself through the solid rock. It ran on almost in darkness, 
with no green edge of verdure to embellish its border, except 
where here and there a tuft of fern waved its delicate fronds 
over its waters. 

How are we to get out of this place asked Harold, as he 
gazed up the chasm with eyes seeking for an outlet. 

“ There are steps by the waterfall at the head of the combe,” re- 
turned Michael. “ The Mermaia’s Well is tii^.e. ’Tis a whisht 
plaace, but Miss Estrild dearly loves to sit there. And look — 
there she is now !” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


71 


And through a mist of spray rising from a cascade which like 
a glistening white thread fell over a dark wall of cliff* Harold 
saw a slight figure bending towards him and beckoning with 
s ender hand. 

With a great bound of the heart which sent a glow of joy 
through all his veins, Harold strode on rapidly, leaving Michael 
far behind. 


CHAPTER X. 

At the end of the gorge, towards which Harold now hastened, 
there rose a sheer wall of rock, as clean-cut and precipitous as 
though it formed the side of a quarry hewn out by human hands. 
Over this there dashed a white thread of water, which fell iuto a 
natural basin below with a haze of foam and rush of sound, 
ere it wandered onwards in its course through the wild ravine to 
the sea. 

Slightly hidden by the cloud of spray, Estrild stood near the 
waterfall and held out both her hands to Harold with a wan 
smile of welcome. He caught them in his nervously, and looked 
into her eyes with the anxious gaze of a man who for the first 
time has felt the coldness of a falling, shadow between him and 
his love. She met his look for an instant, then her eyes grew 
dark with unutterable grief, their lids drooped, her lips shook, 
and her‘cold hands were withdrawn from his. 

‘‘ Estrild,’^ Harold cried passionately, “ is your heart so turned 
against me that you cannot even speak to me ? 

For answer she raised her eyes to his in mute reproach, then 
suddenly caught his hnnd in a wild clasp, and, dropping it, laid 
her head on his shoulder and strained him in her arms with a cry 
of pain that went to his heart 

“ Oh, my dearest — my dearest ! she murmured. “ Never now 
to know how dear ! Oh, Harold, cannot you feel the truth ? 
We are parted — a shadow from the unseen world has come 
between us, and will separate us for ever in this life.” 

In the excess of his joy and his sorrow — for both were with 
him — Harold trembled, and the arm that supported her quivered 
beneath her soft touch. 

“ My dear love, your nerves are unstrung, and you are full of 


72 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


natural grief he said soothingly. “ Believe me, there is noth- 
ing can part you and me, seen or unseen. Trust me, be 
true to me, and I will prove the truth of my words with my 
life.^' 

“ I do trust you,^’ she answered ; “ and I will trust you, no 
matter what wall of separation may be built up between us.” 

“Then what is there to fear, darling? No separation can 
arise except through a change in your own feelings, for mine can 
never alter.” 

“ And do you think mine will ? ” she asked, in a trembling 
voice. “ Do you think it was f .om want of love I seemed 
hard and cold when I saw Tristram lying dead before me ? ” 

“ My dearest, I cannot tell you what I thought. I was full 
of fear and pain. But we are reccnjiled, and you are my own 
again now, and no cold breath of unkindness shall ever touch us 
more.” 

Estrild -raised her head and looked into his face with eyes full 
of unshed tears. 

“It was not unkindness,” she said, staying her voice — “there 
shall never be unkindness between us — it was despair. Haio’d, 
hope and love are dead for me now. Last year I promised 
Tristram ” 

But here her voice broke, and she clung to him trembling, all 
speech stayed in the renewed memory of that day^s grief. He sup- 
ported her within his arm, pressing his lips on her bent head in sil- 
ence, feeling that one touch of love could give her more comfort than 
a thousand words. Thus he stood till the paroxysm of agony 
that shook her slight frame was passed and she could speak 
again. At that moment Michael joined them ; but they did not 
start apart at his presence ; they stood together, still with arms 
interlacing for her weakness had need of his support. 

“ I reckon, sir,” said Michael, “ I’d best fetch your things and 
carry them down to the beach to waunce. There won’t be time 
for ’ee to go up to the house now.” 

“Yes, yes, Michael ; ask your father to put up two or three 
requisites for me. And I’ll join you by the cliff pathway in ten 
minutes.” 

“We’ll be back to-morrow, miss, I hope,” said Michael, “ef 
we’ve goet a fair wind. And I’m going ’long with Mr. Olver, miss ; 
and I promise ’ee there sha’n’t no harm come to ’un that don’t go 
through my body fust” 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


73 


With a glance of deep pity for the fair young mistress who 
had no voice or strength to thank him, Michael hurried swiftly 
away. 

“ So it is true, and you are going in pursuit of the cutter?’^ 
Estrild said. “ Is it my fault ? Is it through me or for me that 
you undertake this danger 

‘‘ My dear, there is no danger. And I go because I suspect 
Captain Armstrong of a design to screen a criminal. I confess 
that that alone is not my motive. I want to prove to you that 
— setting Providence apart-nothing has occurred that cannot be 
accounted for natu rally.’' 

For a moment Estrild was silent, then she said quietly — 

‘‘ I understand all you think and feel, but you cannot under- 
stand all my feelings. You have not lived as I have, in the 
midst of death. Your reason, I know, is full of arguments 
against my gloom, but a thousand words will not do away with 
facts. Tristram is dead, and he has died, as all my people 
die, in circumstances of inexplicable mystery.” 

“ But, my dear Estrild, if I prove the contrary, if I bring for- 
ward a whole ship’s crew to bear witness to the manner of his 
death, surely you will believe it without mystery then ? ” 

“ If you can succeed in doing that, Harold, we shall not be 
parted ; but my hope is very faint.” 

“ See here, Estrild — we will not talk of parting. Success or 
failure, you are mine and I am yours for life. Such words from 
you discourage and dishearten me ; at any other time but this I 
should think them cruel — I should know that they meant you no 
longer loved me.” 

“You must promise me never to attach that meaning to them 
again ” she said earnestly. “ You remember how unwilling I 
was to love you 1 ” 

“ I remember it too well. And the love that was so hard to 
win it would be harder still to lose,” he answered. 

“You will never lose it — the love that could conquer all the 
fears and doubts of my past life is not a love that can change. 
You broke down the great resolve of my heart. Tristram and I 
had agreed that we would never marry, but stand by each other 
through all our days. If my love for you has proved strong 
enough to make me faithless to that compact, is it likely to prove 
weak now, when Tristram is gone and I have but you in the 
world?” 


74 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


She asked the question with tears, and he folded her in his 
arms and kissed her. 

My dearest,” he said, “ is that the promise to Tristram of 
which you spoke just now? ” 

“ Oh no ! It is a promise I tremble to think of, for even if it 
kill me I must keep it ! Oh, my love, my love, do not hate me 
for saying this ! She clung to him with trembling hands, her 
eyes beseeching his pity, in a passion of mingled love and terror. 

Tell me the promise, Estrild, and do not fear to speak out. 
I shall not hate you for it, whether you keep it or break it.” 

She drew a long breath, and gave one piteous glance at his 
face, as though deprecating his anger. 

“ It was last year in Switzerland,” she said; “you had just 
told me that you loved me. I was very happy. I had had a 
season of doubt, of fear and indecision ; I had resisted your 
power ; I had tried not to love you ; but that was all over, aifd I 
had accepted happiness, and began to believe that it could be 
mine. I confessed all this to Tristram, and he listened to me 
without uttering a reproach. He only said, ‘ So you break our 
contract, little one ! And I shall be very lonely when you are 
gone.’ I felt heart-broken, and I threw myself into his arms 
and declared passionately that I would not leave him even for 
you. He stroked my hair with his dear hand, and said, ‘ The 
thing is done now, Estrild ; a dearer love than mine is come 
to you. I will not part you from it. Only remember this, that I 
will remain single all my life. A curse shall not be transmitted 
through me. We have talked on this subject many times, and 
you know my thoughts on it and my determination. I will not 
break that resolve ; I feel I can hold it through the bitterest 
solitude that can fall upon a man. I had hoped, child, that you 
would have the courage to resolve with me to be the last of our 
race, but I see now I expected too much from your tend r nature. 
Do not cast a cloud upon your own and Harold’s ha; p ness by 
telling him of our fears. Time enough for that when ne comes 
to Langarth — time enough when he takes you away and leaves 
my house desolate. I was wrong, Estrild, to ask you to lead a 
lonely and barren life such as mine will be. There — do not cry 
so bitterly ; I am not hurt that you could not do it. All I will 
ask of your softer heart is to stand fast by your duty, and give 
up your lover rather than bring upon his life the terror and 
anguish that cling to ours. While I live the curse can never 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


75 


touch you, but, if I die as we all have died, then you will stiind 
in my ;>lace, and you must bear my cross. Will you promise me 
to do this ? ' Harold, as he said that he held both my hands and 
looked into my face with eyes that would take no denial, and I 
answered ‘ Yes. ^ ” 

Estrild had spoken rapidly, with growing excitement and colour 
rising in her cheeks ; she stopped now with hurried breath and 
eyes bright and shining. Harold noted all this, and, fearing to 
increase the fever of her grief, he refrained from speaking the 
thoughts that burned angrily within him. It needed a keen re- 
membrance of the silent room where Tristram lay pale and cold 
to check the bitter reproach against his superstition which was 
ready to spring to his lips. He held it back ; this was not a time 
to blame the newly dead to his sorrowing sister. 

“ What did you say ? he asked her quietly. “ Tell me 
exactly the promise that was wrung from you.^^ 

“ Oh, it was not wrung from me ! We grew up together with 
this resolve in our hearts. Often we wandered to this very spot, 
hand in hand, and sat down here by the Mermaid’s Well, and 
talked of our future lives to be led together in loneliness, 
strengthening each other in our vow. But I had not his courage. 
Oh, I have failed — 1 have failed pitifully ! 

She raised her bent head and looked around on the wild land- 
scape, filled to her with dear memories of childhood and of youth 
and the brother lying now so pale and silent in her desolate 
home. Harold held his peace for very pity ; he knew his image 
had no place in these sad recollections, and he would not thrust 
himself upon thoughts sacred to another. He waited till her 
eyes turned to him again, and the swift blood rushed to her face 
with a tide of newer memories. 

‘‘I cannot help my thoughts wandering to the old days when 
Tristram was all in all and you were not in my life. You will 
forgive me ? ” she said piteously, holding out her hand to him. 
“From what I have said, you will understand better why he 
could demand such a vow and why I could speak it. I promised 
in solemn words that, if his death was like the death of all his 
race, the curse should die out with me, and I would renounce the 
dearest love of my life, and never be wife or mother.” 

“ And you said that after you had given your word to me, 
Estrild ? ” asked her lover bitterly. 

“ I must answer both ‘ Yes ’ and ‘ Ho, ^ ” she said, her f&co 


76 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


growing very white beneath the reproach of his fixed gaze. “ It 
was a resolve spoken continually between us for years, and here 
on this very spot where we stand it was solemnly ratified. This 
was before I knew you — it was the eve of Tristram’s departure 
for Palestine. You remember that pilgrimage ^ ” 

“ 1 remember every shadow and light of it,” he answered ; 
“ and I see its meaning now.” 

“Yes, Tristram went in faith, like a pilgrim of old, and carried 
a hope with him which was never fulfilled. We spoke of it here 
together and then he reminded me that, if he never returned, I 
should be heiress of Langarth, and, if death fell upon him from 
the same mysterious hand which struck us all, his burden would 
thenceforth be mine, and his vow mine to keep. Then it was 
that I repeated it in strong and solemn words ; and I know that 
I am bound by it now.” 

A short silence full of gnawing pain fell between them. 
Harold had a thousand arguments on his lips against the cruel 
folly of such a vow and the superstition that led to it, but the 
time would not allow him to utter them. One glance at Estrild’s 
grief-stricken face choked them back upon his heart ; she would 
not sufier any shadow of reproach from him to fall upon the 
brother whose face was yet visible to her, tender and loving still 
in its awful beauty. One expostulation he could permit himself 
to make. 

“ My dear Estrild, all this passed between your brother and 
you before your engagement to me. He ratified that engage- 
ment, and by so doing he absolved you from your promise.” 

“No, no — not unless he lived, or died naturally as other men 
die. If his life passed away in mystery, as it has now, my vow 
was to stand. I have told you that he made me repeat it — 
made me promise that I would renounce love, hope, happiness, 
all I hold dear rather than bring a curse upon the lives of 
others.” 

“ My dear Estrild, all this is a mistake — a wild folly built 
upon surmise and superstition.” 

“ Which make the fabric of my life,” she interposed. “ These 
follies, these superstitions and terrors, have been built into my 
days hour by hour. You cannot fling their burden from me by a 
few words.” 

“ Granted,” hd continued, “ and I will yield to your feelings 
thus far, that, if your brother’s death cannot be explained natur- 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


77 


ally, I should be neither angry nor surprised if your promise 
weighed somewhat on your mind. But, if I bring you back full 
proof that his death was a simple accident, you will surely 
acknowledge that you are not bound by it ? ” 

She met his eyes with a pale smile on her lips, and laid both 
her hands on his shoulders. 

“ Prove that to me, and I am yours for ever ; nothing should 
stand between us then.’^ 

He bent forward and kissed her, with a cold feeling at his 
heai't that his happiness was still far away. 

‘‘Nothing between us,” he repeated, “ except your guardian 
and uncle. You ignore the real difficulty in our path, Estrild, 
to build up a fanciful wall of terrors.” 

“ My guardian ? ” she said, in surprised scorn. “ He possesses 
no weapon in all his mean artillery by which he could separate us. 
I have no fear of him.” 

“But I have,” returned Harold ; “and 1 hate now to leave 
you to his mercy, alone too as you are.” 

“No, not alone. I have sent for my cousin Pleasance. You 
remember her ? She was with us a little while in Switzerland.” 

“ I am thankful to hear that,” Harold cried, as he caught her 
hand again. “ Miss Glendorgal is kind and good ; I shall leave 
you now, Estrild, with a happier mind. In forty-eight hours I 
hope to be with you again ; meanwhile promise me to be brave.” 

She turned away her face, and he saw tears falling slowly from 
her eyes. It was a good sign — it was better to weep than to 
meet grief with the stony anguish and terror she had shown that 
morning. 

“ I must go, darling,” he said unwillingly. “ The boat waits 
for me ; I have delayed too long.” 

“ One instant longer,” she said, with sad eagerness. “You 
spoke of a fancied wall of terrors between us ; but that horseman, 
Harold, who rode to Langarth — you saw him — was he a fancy.” 

“No,” returned the young man; and his heart was suddenly 
stirred within him by a curious revulsion of feeling. It was 
partly anger at her seeming indifference to his departure, and 
partly dismay at seeing her mind so filled with this cloud of 
superstitious gloom that her love could not break through it to 
give him a word of comfort, and it was partly also the shock of 
discovering within himself a lurking sympathy with her horror 
of this strange visitor. “ No,” he said ; the man was flesh and 


78 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


blood — of a kind — an odd kind ; and one day I will follow him 
and hunt him down, with as sure a certainty of tearing off the 
mystery in which he chooses to shroud himself as I have now of 
ffnding the Alert and bringing the hand that slew your brother 
to justice and to daylight. 

“ Do not be angry,” she said, in a low shaken voice. “ When 
you come back, perhaps we must say good-bye for ever. But now 
we say it in hope j let us part in love.” 

“ Good bye !” he answered, and folded his arms about her, 
angry still that she could talk of parting forever through shadows 
rising from a dead past — shadows that he was going to sweep 
away. 

For an instant she clung to him ; then their arms fell mutually, 
and they stood apart, with the spray of the waterfall rising be- 
tween like a pillar of separation. 

“ Good-bye !” she said again, and broke down utterly, with her 
weeping face upon her hands. 

“ I have been cruel,” he thought ; and with a single step he 
had her in his arms again. 

Thus they re-embraced in a sort of bitterness, feeling dis- 
united still. 

She stood watching him as he spang up the rugged steps lead- 
ing from the gorge and hurried swiftly to the sea. 


CHAPTER XI. 

The sea was surging uneasily ; every roller came in tinted with 
gray, for the depths were stirred by the great waves that lashed 
the barricade of cliffs, and hidden sands were flung upwards to 
mingle with the heaving waters. 

Within the long reef which protected the tiny harbour from 
the outside roughness lay a little boat, tossing like a cork on the 
waves as Michael and a boy rowed her to and fro, with faces 
often turned anxiously towards the path which wound its jagged 
length down the cliff. 

When Harold appeared at last, Michael took off his cap and 
waved it, partly in satisfaction and partly to hurry his steps. 

On seeing this signal Harold broke into a run, and was soon 
down on the white sands, which were narrowed now to a mere 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


70 


glistening line, catching the foam ere it dashed upwards with 
Angry roar. 

Michael brought the boat to the side of the long reef, which 
acted like a pier or breakwater, and beckoned to Harold to join 
him there. By any other way it would have been impracticable 
to get on board. But between him and this ledge of rock there 
raged and roared a foaming mass of waters through which 
it was impossible for him to pass without being dashed to 
death. 

On seeing tlie narrow strip of beach now completely covered, 
Michael threw up his arms in despair. Then, making a speak- 
ing-trumpet of his hands, he called aloud to Harold ; but his 
voice, strong as it was, went out upon the sea a mere breath 
without sound. Seeing by Harold’s signals that not a word had 
reached him, he desisted from further speech, and, grasping his 
oars, gave his attention to the safety of the boat, which needed 
all his care and skill lest it should be dashed against the natural 
pier or ledge of rocks too roughly. 

Suddenly the open-eyed wonder of DaniePs boy, Josiah Mar- 
tin, caught Michael’s gaze. 

“ What be glaazing at, sonny boy ? he asked impatiently. 

“ Thic gentleman we’ve been waiting for. He be climbing the 
cliff like a goat.” 

“ He can’t get to us that way,” returned Michael. “ He must 
walk to Langarth now, and Daniel must take the Curlew round 
for ’un. I shall make ’un understand somehow, I reckon, what 
he’ve goet to do. We’d best start to waunce ; when he sees us 
off, he’ll come round arter us.” 

Bide a bit ; he be goin’ to jump ! ” cried the lad eagerly. 

Michael, whose back was towards the shore, turned his head 
in amazement, just in time to see Harold make a daring spring 
from the rugged point of cliff to which he had climbed to the 
edge of rock below. Beneath him as he sprang was a tumultuous 
sea, whose surf dashed upwards as though hungering to seize him 
in its relentless grip. For one second his life hung suspended 
over this raging white death, the next he was safe and on his 
feet upon the firm gray ridge of rook that stretched its giant 
length among the tuml)ling waves. 

Michael drew a long breath ; his face was white, but his eyes 
shone like coals of fire. 

“ That was as brave a leap as ever I see in aal my born days,’* 


80 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


he said, as he stretched out his hand to help Harold into the 
boat. “ I didn^t think there was a man living could taake sich 
a spring. You don’t count your life for much, sir, 1 reckon.” 

“ I count it worth millions, Michael. Now for the Curlew 
as hard as we can row ! You see 1 could not affort to waste 
more time by going round to Lafigarth, which was the sole thing 
to do unless I had jumped as I did.” 

“ You shouldn’t have wasted them precious twenty minutes, 
nir,” said Michael, regarding him with renewed admiration. 

You see the tide wouldn’t wait for ’ee.” 

“ The minutes were not wasted, Michael, though, as you say, 
they were precious indeed to me. Now give way, lads ! ” 

The Curlew was close by, yet it took hard rowing to reach her ; 
and it was harder work still to get alongside of her black hull and 
i^atch the rope flung to them, and so reach the wet deck 
drenched with spray. Then the boat was hauled up — it was only 
li small dingy — the sails were set,and the Curlew put her prow to 
the waves ; and, dashing the foam from her gallant sides, she flew 
Hike a bird into the open sea. 

Of all the boats that floated upon the ocean, the safest and the 
soundest is a true pilot-boat. Built for every weather and for 
every wave, it will ride out the fiercest gale, and fly gallantly 
before a storm that would shatter a stately frigate or founder a 
huge man-of-war. 

“ If the wind holds up,” said Daniel, “ we shall catch the coast 
of Brittany in six hours. And now, sir, I’d advise ’ee to tackle 
a bit of crouse [victuals], and arter that titch pipe a croom, and 
then turn in and slaip till we make land.” 

Harold felt this was good counsel, for since his hasty breakfast 
he had tasted nothing, and for lack of sleep head and heart were 
heavy and weary. 

“ Now then, gawkum [simpleton], what be stopping there for 
goggling for gapes like a pattick ? ” cried Michael to the boy. 
“ Go and get the table fitty for denner.” 

Josiah, with his chin upon his hands and his elbows on his 
knees, was sitting on an upturned bucket staring at Harold with 
the glazed and expressionless eyes of a fish. 

“I knawed a miner waunce,” said Josiah, rising leisurely, 
‘“who jumped down a shaaft for fear he’d be spaled [fined], ’cos, 
you see, he were laate, but he bruk boath his legs short like a 
carrot, and he wes carr’d hoam ’pon boords knacked aal to jouda 
[pieces]. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ What mazedish stram be telling oop now ] asked Michael, 
with some anger. 

‘‘ ’Teddn't no stram — ^tes truth, I tell ^ee. And the man was 
buried a week arter thic jump. And there was talk of having 
a barrl for ’uii ^stead of a coffin, ’cos he doubled up so like.” 

“ Josiah, my son,” interposed Daniel, “ I reckon a rope’s-end 
will double thee up soon, ef thee drumbles any longer.” 

Upon this hint Josiah departed to perform his duties, yet he 
gave a last glance at Harold with a dissatisfied air, murmuring 
audibly that if his bones were not broken they ought to be. 

“ Wall, it was a braave spring for a goat, leave alone a man,” 
acquiesced Michael. “Where did you larn, sir, to maake your 
limbs so spry ? ” 

“ I’ve been a mountain climber all my life, Michael — that’s 
the secret of it. I have taken many a longer jump than that, 
and a more dangerous. I would rather spring from a cliff than 
jump across a crevasse.” 

“ May I maake bould to ax what that is, sir ? ” 

“W'ell, it is a rent or chasm in a mountain. If you will 
imagine it as something like the gorge that runs up to the 'Mer- 
maid’s Well, you will be able to form a notion of it, Michael.” 

“Well, now,” observed Michael, “ I shouldn’t wonder if you 
was dreeve to it, that you might jump thic plaace too.” 

“ I should be sorry to try,” returned Harold. “ I think in 
all likelihood I should be picked up like Josiah’s friend the 
miner — in any way but a whole piece.” 

“ The ’tatie-pie es ’pon the taable,” said Josiah, leering at it 
with a hungry eye as he turned away from the little cabin ; 
“ and the Capen says, will ’ee plaise to come an’ maake a clain- 
off denner to waunce while he’s hot ? ” 

Even to this day, when the grand earth-apple has suffered 
blight and change, a potato-pie is one of the tastiest dishes 
Cornish hands can make. It is not one of the oldest, though 
among the best, for all the herb-pies and cakes of Carthage, 
ancient in repute and renowned in story, are still dainty and 
delicate realities in the Cornish land. Who that has tasted 
the golden cakes, the Phcenician cream, and the many pies of 
courteous Cornwall does not long to eat of them again ? 

Harold did full justice to the old Cornish dish, and felt all his 
griefs the lighter for his much-needed meal 

“Now, ef you baint too tired, we’ll titch pipe a croom,” said 

w 


82 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Daniel ; and, suiting the action to the word, he forthwith pro- 
ceeded to light a short black pipe. 

Smoking was not a custom then so universal as now, and Har- 
old had not taken up the fashion. He sat on the deck silent, 
his eyes fixed on the dark green trackless hills whose undulating 
heights were spread around and beyond him, while a great black 
sea of thought — wordless, formless — beat in constant waves of 
pain upon his heart. 

“ It’s ill thinking without speaking,” observed Daniel, “ when 
thoughts are black. I reckon, sir, though you be on the sea, 
your heart’s ashore at Langarth. But it’s little you can do 
for the young lady now, sir ; she is in other hands.” 

That is just the point I am debating,” returned Harold. “ I 
fear I ought not to have left her to go on a wild and maybee 
hopeless chase.” 

‘‘ I wish I was as sure of fair weather as I be of falling in with 
the cutter,” responded Daniel. “I know Capen Armstrong’s 
ways of sailing as well as I know the north star ; and, if I don’t 
steer right down ’pon the Alert afore morning breaks, you may 
call me a Dutchman. Now, ef ’twas the Flying Dutchman we 
was chasing. I’d own it would be wild work, and we might so 
well haul down sails to waunce. There’s neither wind nor wave, 
nor prayer nor curse, nor moan of the sea, nor groam from the 
land, will ever reach thic ship.” 

“ And you’ve the right to say that, Daniel, ef any man have,” 
said Michael, “ for you’ve seen and chased her too — many a 
time.” 

“Not many a time, my son, but oftener than I wish to again. 
But I’ve seen worse than the Flying Dutchman^ 

“ Have ’ee sure? ” said Michael. “ Was it a pixie now ? ” 

“Ora ghost ? ” asked Harold, half smiling at his own question. 
“ This is just the hour for ghost stories, Captain.” 

“ But not for making fun of ’em,” returned Daniel seriously. 
“ The sea is full of ghosts. Death and the sea are twin brother 
and sister; and, if a man escapes from the grief of the first on 
land, he faMs into the cold arms of the other at sea. Years come 
upon years ; but death is never tired of giving, and the sea is 
never tired of having.” 

“Well, now, Daniel, I reckon even a ghost-story is more lively 
talk than that,” observed Michael, “so let’s have it.” 

“ It happened just like this,” said Daniel, “ and it might be 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


83 


ten years agone. I went down to the wharf waun night jist 
arter the old church clock had gone twelve, for I^d heard say a 
barque was in, wanting a pilot to take her on to Falmouth. Well, 
there was the barque, sure enough, and leaning on the wall look- 
ing at her were a man. I spoke to ’un and gave ’un good night, 
but he didn’t maake no answer, and he didn’t turn round, nor 
taake no notice like, and I felt vexed as fire — for, thinks I, a 
civil word desarves a civil word back. So I went up close to 
’un, and said, ‘ ’Tis a fine night, maister.’ Not a w^ord would he 
spake. Then 1 felt my blood curdly up, and 1 let go my temper 
a bit like. ‘ Thee’rt a queer chap,’ I said to ’un, ‘ not to spake. 
Why, I’d spake to the devil if he spoke civil to me ! You be 
come from some oogly country, I reckon, where nobody learns 
manners. ’Pon that he turns round sharp and glares abroad his 
great eyes, and shaws me his great face, white as if he’d been 
under water a week, and I saw bits of seaweed and tiny broken 
shells sticking in his whiskers and hair. This scared me, and I 
walked up the pier hard as I could go, for I didn’t like the looks 
of ’un at all. But he followed me close, and I could hear the 
water going ‘ squash, squash ’ in his shoes every step he took. 
Then I spoke to ’un again, for I didn’t want to be an civil to a 
stranger ; but he never answered a word. So then I thought I’d 
run home and get waun of my crew to go out with me to the 
barque ; and I went for my life, and when I got to the end of 
the pier I looked back and there was the man standing where I’d 
left him. I felt glad he hadn’t followed me. But, wdien I got 
to my aun door, there he was standing straight up, his eyes wide 
open, glaring, and all his teeth showing as if he had no lips. I 
shook like a leaf, my hat lifted off my head with the rustling of 
my hair, and the sweat boiled out of me. I can’t tell what 
happened for a minute. When I woke up like, he was gone, and*^ 
I was in a daze ; but I went into the house and got my comrade,and 
we two went aboard of the craft and put her into Falmouth. 
Well, the Curlew corned round there for me, and when I got 
hoam I was carried to bed and lay sick a month, and aal my 
hair failed off and ’twas white at the roots as snaw.” 

Daniel shook the ashes from his pipe as he said this, and filled 
it up again in silence. 

“ Is thic the end of the ghost?” asked Michael. “Why, I 
can’t see no good in his coming at all ! ” 

“No more can I, my soru But thic barque went down with 


84 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


all hands aboard. She loaded at Falmouth and sailed for Swan- 
sea, and foundered in sight of land. Not a soul was saved of aal 
her crew.’^ 

“Well, it is a queer story anyhow,” observed Harold, 
“ whether you were ill or well at the time of the vision came to 
you. And, since you are good at seeing ghosts, tell me what 
you think of the ghost at Langarth — that dark rider. Is he man 
or spirit ? ” 

“ A spirit wouldn’t want horseflesh to bring him to Langarth,” 
said Daniel. “ I say he is a man ; but he don’t come alone. If 
a spirit didn’t lead him to Langarth, he’d never take that whisht 
ride.” 

“ I wonder he lias never been followed and identified,” said 
Harold. “ I wish I had pursued him last night.” 

“ You wouldn’t have caught him, sir,” observed Michael. “ The 
aunly way to lay hould of him is to get ahead of him — so the 
ould folk’s stories go; and no waun have ever done that yet.” 

“ ’Tis my watch now,” said Daniel rising ; “ and I’ll say good 
night to ’ee, and I hope you’ll slaip well, Mr. Giver. There’s as 
good a night’s rest in thic there bunk of mine as in arra king’s 
bed ashore.” 


CHAPTER XIT, 

Could it be possible that from the mystic margin of that land 
which is far away phantom shapes might beckon or some sad 
spirit stray ? 

In gloomy bewilderment this question wandered to and fro 
through Harold’s racked brain as he strove vainly to sleep. All 
the mingled noises of the night seemed to join in a confused war- 
fare, battling against his slumber, and all reiterated the ever- 
recurring thought with vexed and feverish persistency. 

Should he arouse himself and laugh at the cloudy superstitions 
which shaped phantoms out of the mist and saw portents in the 
colour of a wave ? Then there rose before him the dead face of 
liis friend, or the sad eyes of his love reproaching him with his 
unbelief. Rough-hew his thoughts as he would, they still took 
this one certain form — that of fear for the effect of her brother’s 
death on Estrild’s mind. He might fling from his own soul the 


V 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


85 


cloud of superstitious terror that was settling round the bier of 
Tristram Carbonellis, but he could not hope to clear Estrild’s 
heart of the perilous stuff that weighed upon it unless he could 
bring forward irrefragable proof that her brother’s death was 
caused by human means without supervention of aught not of 
this world. With this conviction came the strengthening of his 
resolve to gain that proof at however great a cost of toil and 
time and trouble. Through storm at sea, through labour on 
land, he would pursue these phantoms whose icy shadows had 
laid a cold touch upon his love, and he would lay them for ever 
at rest, and bring peace back to her troubled heart. 

The sound of the hurried waves surging against the ship’s 
sides, the shriek of the frosty wind among the sails, the creaking 
of cordage, the tramp of feet above his head, ail seemed nowi the 
cry of encouraging voices urging him forward on his course. 

The overlapping waves, as if weary of their endless wakeful- 
ness, broke on his ear with a gentler touch, as though they too 
dreamed of peace, and thus at length they laid a seal upon his 
eyelids and rocked him into slumber. 

What was it that awoke him, or seemed to awake him, from 
the sleep that had fast bound him within its peaceful folds ? It 
was a cry of the night — a faint cry as of some living thing strug- 
gling with death, and dying even as its voice went forth in spent 
weakness. Tiien from out the darkness in the midst of the sea 
he saw a hand — a man’s hand — clutchihg an oar, which the wind 
dashed to and fro with savage strength like a bit of drift-weed, 
relentness, regardless that holding on to it , in fierce hunger of 
life was a human soul, clothed with all the tenderness of human 
hours, and maybe with a picture of home and loving faces in its 
sad eyes, as fighting for breath, it was borne onwards and 
vanished in the hollow of a black wave. 

With its vanishing there fell down a great sorrow on Harold’s 
dreaming spirit, for some inward voice, soundless as thought, and 
yet having words, seemed to pass to him from the drowning man, 
saying, “ I had no word, no prayer, no cry to utter to thee when 
I was just as thou art ; but now, in the spirit, I warn thee to cease 
thy quest ; some knowledge is forbidden. Had I lived, I would 
have unveiled this mystery ; being dead, I hide it.” 

Only a dream ; but never did man strive and agonise awake 
as Harold strove now in slumber to save the perishing life that 


86 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


drifted fast away into the heaving darkness of the eternal sea. 
He awoke with cold sweat upon his brow, and hands and arms 
outstretched like a swimmer’s in despair. 

The turmoil of a great storm was round about him, and 
shrieking amid the sails as the little ship flew onward before the 
mighty wind’s breath. He rose and struggled to his feet, dazed 
still with sleep, and wondering with dull wonder at his strange 
surroundings. In a moment his mind cleared, the vividness of 
his dream subsided to a paler hue ; it no longer seemed dreadful, 
but rather the natural consequence of the hubbub around him. 

The liquid low light of dawn was trembling on the sea as he 
emerged from the tiny cabin and confronted the spray-drenched 
faces of the men who had battled- with storm and darkness while 
he slept. In the dim light he looked at his watch, and noted 
with surprise that his sleep had lasted seven hours. It had been 
the dead sleep of a man exhausted by fatigue and excitement. 
He gazed around him now as though looking on a new world ; 
but it was a world of waters tumultuously heaving and engirt by 
a dark sky, save in the east, where the darkness was struck 
across as by a hand alight lifted from the horizon. 

Daniel was at the helm, and by the set firmness of his face 
Harold guessed it would not be wise to disturb him with speech. 
Michael however came forward. 

“We have sighted the cutter, sir,” he said. 

“ Where ? ” Harold cried eagerly, his face flushing with hope. 

“ To larboai'd, sir. She is hugging the coast too close in such 
weather as this, and Daniel is giving her a wide berth. You 
^an't see her now, sir,” he added, as Harold rushsd to the side, 
scanning the southern haze with searching eyes. 

But on that side darkness still reigned intense, and full of the 
terror and turmoil of storm. It was the heart of the tempest 
and the night, untouched as yet by the pulse of light throbbing 
in the east. The night of the sea was appalling ; huge waves 
lifted the Curlew to the top of their crests only to fling her 
down into deep hollows, where for an instant, ere she rose again, 
she seemed to be engulfed by a black and seething death. 

The close-reefed mainsail stood the storm, the jib was gone, 
the tiller was lashed, and the stout little ship took the blows of 
the gigantic seas passively. It was only by holding on with both 
hands, that Harold could stand on the flooded deck. When the 
sea is wrathful, man’s strength is but a straw. There was danger 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


87 


in every rush of water to leeward, there was death in every 
hammer-blow from each enormous wave that sprang like a living 
foe upon the gallant little Curlew^ who only shook her wings and 
flew and flew along her dark and dangerous path still safe and 
sound in every plank. 

At length the light lifted the thick darkness from the sea, and 
the great gusts of wind that swooped down from the sky rent 
the clouds^ asunder and gave to the waves the glory of the sun. 
Then suddenly, as if she were a ghost looming from within a 
hazy and mysterious veil, the Alert became visible for the flash 
of an instant, and then vanished. Had the sea swallowed her 
up ? Had she disappeared for ever ? 

The blood rushed to Harold^s face and back to his heart as he 
looked out over the haze, and the mighty swell of waters that 
bore for'him now only the blankness of death. Slowly he made 
his way to the helm, where Daniel stood lashed to it, his salt 
wet hands on it still, his earnest eyes piercing the sea-drenched 
path through which the Curlew flew. 

It seemed a sin at such a time to draw away a single thought 
from the man on whose skill human lives were hanging. 

For a moment Harold stood abashed, then his unquenchable 
desire to reach the Alert burned in him again ; and, touching 
Daniel on the arm, he point to the coast. He was understood 
instantly. 

“ Impossible ! ” said Daniel. “ If the Alert were sinking only 
a hundred yards away, I couldnT save a man in her. I could 
but save my own bird, and the lives here trusting in my seaman 
ship.” 

“ But, Daniel, surely the Alert is not in danger ? ” 

“ In ten minutes she’ll be a wreck. She’s drifting on the 
rocks. It’s Capen Armstrong’s way ; he always hugs the shore 
too close.” 

‘‘ Can’t we reach her ? Can’t we bear down near to her 1 ** 
Harold cried. 

“ If we want to be drowned, we can. But I reckon there 
isn’t no waun aboard the Curlew weariful for such a whisht 
death.” 

Harold turned away with a silent cry of anger in his heart. 
He had no right to risk men’s lives for Estrild’s sake, but it 
would be hard to go back to her with a blank and dreary message 
of utter disappointment. 


88 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Michael came up to him at that moment and put a glass intp 
his hand, 

“ Catch the right point, sir, and you’ll see the Alert plain 
enough. She’s got death for her compass now, and the sea for her 
grave. It’s an awful sight to see brave men perish and not be 
able to stretch out a saving hand to help them. This has 
been a wild night, and it’s a wild night’s work. The Lord 
forgive they men who slocked [decoyed] Capen Armstrong into 
this 1 ” 

Harold scarcely heard his rapid words. He had got the Alert 
within the focus of the glass. She was on a huge hungry reef of 
rocks, and foaming breakers were dashing a white and savage 
message of death over and above her. It was horrible to see the 
enormous waves, and think of their power and strength^ as they 
dragged lives down beneath them. Even at that distance the 
roar of their onslaught on the doomed vessel was wafted across 
sea and sky in a low moan which touched listening hearts with 
terror. 

The Alert was lying broadside on, with a heavy list towards 
the black cliffs above her, and with her mast still standing. By 
aid of the glass Harold could see some of the crew huddled 
together in the rigging, and the sea making clean breaches over 
the hull. The scene was dreadful, and so vivid that in imagina- 
tion he heard the noise of the grinding and smashing 
of her timbers on the rocks. The spars were carried 
away. Apparently the doomed vessel had driven be- 
fore wind and sea for hours, then porhaps had tried 
an anchor, and eventually been dragged ashore. Her 
position now was hopeless, and that any life could be saved in 
this weather and on this iron coast was impossible. No boat 
could render any service, for the stoutest ever launched could not 
not have lived a moment in that boiling surf. But seemingly no 
inhabitant of that wild coast dreamed of striving to risk boat or 
life in a hopeless contest with the raging sea. On the height, 
wind-battered and dimly visible amid spray and mist, stood a 
small crowd of men, who now suddenly lighted a fire of dry furze, 
whose flame shot up with crackling swiftness, flinging the lurid 
light over the stormy oea and lighting up the vessel with start- 
ling distinctness. Then it was that Harold, with a quivering 
pulse, recognized the figure of Captain Armstrong standing on 
the poop — one hand extended as though in giving some order, 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


89 


the other clinging, he could not discern to what. For one instant 
the brave face, white but steadfast, was visible as if clearly cut 
against the towering blackness of the cliff, the next the frame 
fell and darkness followed. 

When next, in the swaling of the furze, the flame shot again 
upwards and outwards, the poop was gone — washed away — 
and the gallant figure that had given commands to the last had 
vanished. 

Harold felt his heart quiver within him with that electric 
touch of sympathy which a brave man’s death conveys to the 
human soul. He hurried up to Daniel and ventured once more 
to touch him on the arm. 

‘‘ Can nothing be done? Can we not save one life he asked, 
in piteous entreaty. 

Daniel cast one glance at the iron-bound coast, so perilously 
near, and shook his head with-ominious gravity. 

“ Heaven keep us off that !” he said, turning his gaze for an 
instant towards the white line of breakers tossing like driven 
snow against a wall of blackness. “Maybe we may pick some 
one up from the sea — ’tis all we can hope for.’’ 

A huge cloud at that moment, lifting from the land passed 
over the sea to the west, and a shaft of lightning broke from it, 
rending it asunder as if by a flaming sword ; a roar of thunder 
followed like the crackling and rattle of a thousand muskets ; 
then came a burst and downpour of hail which struck the deck 
with tremendous force. 

Staggering beneath it, Harold clung to the mast nearly blind- 
ed. As he dashed his hand across his eyes to clear his sight, 
Michael clutched his arm and pointed to leeward. 

Amid the dreadful sea a boat was drifting bottom upwards, 
two men clinging to it. Like drift-weed, the vision passed on 
into the hollow of a wave and was instantly lost to view. 

“ Gone to death !” said Michael, turning away to look once 
more on the wreck of the Alert / 

It was a last look, for, as he and Harold bent their storm- 
beaten gaze on the reef, she was lifted high up on the waves, and 
then crashed down on the rocks with hideous force. Here for 
an instant she rested, and seemed to quvier in every plank ; but 
a huge wave rushed upon her, and lifted her into deep water, 
and she suddenly sank by the stern, and went down in a moment, 
leaving a ghastly blank upon the sea, which struck the eyes of 
the beholders with the amazement of an unexpected horror. 


90 


FROM THE OTHER SIDB. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Mr. Vicat had dined ; he sat in a luxurious arm-chair and 
stretched his large feet agressively before the fire. Then he put 
his big thumbs together and the points of his thick fingers, and 
in this attitude remained some minutes apparently in deep con- 
templation. In reality he was reflecting on the flavour of the 
different wines that he had tasted, and he was thinking with satis- 
faction that his position now with regard to the House of Carbon- 
ellis would give him the run of their particularly good and choice 
cellar. 

“ It is only these old families,” he said aloud, “ that can do 
this sort of thing.” 

“ What sort of thing T asked Mrs. Vicat, looking round the 
large dimly-lighted room with a little shiver. “ I suppose you 
mean family portraits and ghosts I There are too many of them 
here.” 

“ Hew men can only buy a stock,” continued Mr. Vicat, not 
heeding her, “ and must trust the word of the seller as to age and 
other liner attributes. But, even if they are not cheated, it 
never turns out the same thing ; it’s the body, as it were, with- 
out the spirit. Now in these old families it is just the contrary; 
the body, which they may be said to bury down in their old 
dungeons or cellars, gradually wastes or loses all its grosser 
qualities, and only the spirit remains — the aroma — the veritable 

ghost, so to say, of the Well, my dear, what is there to stare 

at over in that corner ? ” 

“ I wish you wouldn’t frighten one, Mr. Vicat, with such 
dreadful talk I Who wants to hear about bodies and spirits and 
ghosts at such a gloomy time as this ? ” 

Who but a simpleton would ever suppose one was talking of 
such things ? It is the ghost of the grape I was speaking of. I 
was saying it was only in an ancient place like this, where wine 
is laid down from generation to generation, that one can taste 
the genuine article. I never drank such a bottle of Burgundy 
in my life as that old fogy of a butler gave me to-night.” Mr. 
Vicat pressed his lips together at the remembrance, and looked 
down on his thumbs with satisfaction. 

“ I wonder you can gloat over you dinner and wine on^uch 
a night as this,” said Mrs. Vicat irritably. “Just listen how 
the wind is howling round these dismal old walls ; and think what 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


91 


there is up-stairs, and how that poor girl is crying hsrself to 
death in loneliness ! 

“ That^s her own choice ; she could come down here and have 
cheerful society if she liked.” 

She doesn’t want cheerful society, especially ours. You 
know perfectly well that she detests you, and she thinks me a 
fool.” 

“Well, my dear, I won’t cavil at her judgment ; and her 
dislike is a matter of perfect indifference to me.” 

Mrs. Yicat stared for a moment at her husband, as if puzzled 
by his words ; but, when she took in their meaning, she flushed 
a little, and searched in her own mind for some weapon of retali- 
ation. But, being a dull woman, it took her some time to fur- 
bish up a sharp speech, and her silence gave Mr. Vicat an advan- 
tage which he seized. 

“ Your dulness of comprehension, my dear, hinders you from 
seeing that, although my niece may be perfectly right in her 
opinion of you, and perfectly justified in her detestation of me, yet 
inj|neither case can this alter our position with regard to her.” 

Mrs. Yicat had been trying to collect her faculties, but this 
speech, to which she had given a divided attention, pressed 
them into a heavy lump from which she could elicit no sparkle 
of thought. 

“ I am sorry for her,” she said helplessly. 

“ So am I,” returned Mr. Yicat ; “ but that does not prevent 
me from being glad for myself. I shall have all the power in 
my own hands now ; and it will be a very nice thing — yes, very 
nice and satisfactory altogether. It is a large estate to manage, 
to say nothing of the funded property and the dues from the 
mines.” 

“Mines?” repeated Mrs. Yicat, who still sat in a collapsed 
state, seeking amid the jumble and entanglement of her thoughts 
for the sharpness that so rarely came to her aid. 

“Yes, my dear, mines — or rather dues paid by the mines to 
her as owner of the soil. Why, the dues alone, I happen 
to know, amount to four thousand a year ; and the estate 
brings six thousand more. Oh, it is an excellent prospect for 
me ! ” 

These words struck the spark so much needed to lighten Mrs. 
Yicat’s mind. 

“ Prospect for you ? ” she said. “You mean for young Mr. 
Olver. I’m glad he’ll be so rich.” 


92 


FROM THE OTHER SIDS. 


‘‘Glad ! ” repeated her husband. “Now who on earth except 
a simpleton would make such a speech as that? You can keep 
your gladness, my dear, till his wealth arrives, and by that time' 
you’ll be old as Methuselah, without being as wise. In my 
opinion, if this weather continues, that young man’s prospects at 
present consist of a good chance of being drowned, and that’s 
an event I should be glad of — it would save me the trouble of 
getting rid of him.” 

“ What do you mean?” gasped Mrs. Yicat, staring at him 
with round eyes full of fear. 

“ I mean that I have not the slightest intention of helping a 
needy young man to jump into ten thousand a year. I don’t 
intend to let him marry my niece.” 

“ But she is engaged to him,” persisted his wife. 

“Well, what then? An engagement is like a house of 
cards — a whiff of breath or a touch of the finger knocks it into 
nothing.” 

“ You are a bad man,” said Mrs. Yicat. 

“ Thank you my love 1 When a woman can’t understand a 
thing, she usually has recourse to abuse. You must permit me, 
if you please, to comprehend my own business, and to act by my 
own judgment without the aid of your superior wisdom. Now it 
is my business to marry my niece and ward to my oldest son — 
and that is what I intend to do.” 

“ They’ll hate each other directly they see through your plans,” 
said Mrs. Yicat angrily. 

“ That’s a mere assertion not likely to be fulfilled,” returned 
Mr. Yicat. 

“ And it is still more likely that Estrild will give up the man 
whom she loves at the wish of a man whom she hates,” retorted 
his wife. 

“ You grow quite sharp, my dear,” he answered coolly, “ If 
she hates me, she won’t hate her cousin. You forget that my 
eldest son is the child of her mother’s sister. Not being your son 
is, I presume, the reason you are not anxious to sec him a 
wealthy man.” 

Mrs. Yicat looked up, and a slight quiver passed over her 
foolish honest face. 

“ I care as much for his welfare as you do. It is not for him- 
self or for his own sake that you wish him to marry his cousin.” 

“ My dear, what a razor you are to-night ! You are really 
giving me some remarkable proofs of your intelligence.” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


93 


“ I don’t mind your sneers,” she answered — “ I’m used to 
them ; but I tremble sometimes for you.” 

“ Much obliged for your solicitude ” — and Mr. Yicat laughed 
disagreeably — “ but I believe I am a man who can take care of 
himself.” 

“ In a worldly way ; but if you will take the trouble to raise 
your eyes for a moment from this earth to the sky, you will see 
that there are other worlds besides this.” 

“ I live in this one,” returned Mr. Yicat in a hard voice. I 
am not going to try a flight among the stars. You had better 
be quiet, Amelia — I warn you I have had enough for the present ! 
I can stand a pretty large amount of nonsense, but, as you know, 
I draw the line always at preaching — that^I won’t stand.” 

Yes, Mrs. Yicat knew it. She rose, and stood holding the 
back of her chair with one hand ; it trembled a little. 

‘‘ I w^as in love with you once,” she said, “and I obstinately 
insisted on marrying you against my dear father’s wish. Weil, I 
deserve to be punished.” 

“ You deserve it pretty often too, my dear.” 

She took no notice of this. 

“ Who is it that says ‘ our sins turn into scorpions and sting 
us ’ I Gilbert told jue, but I have forgotten. ” 

“ You will have an opportunity very shortly to refresh your 
memory by asking him,” observed Mr. Yicat, “ for I shall hurry 
over the inquest and the funeral and return home with all des- 
patch.” 

“ You can’t mean that ?” said Mrs. Yicat entreatingly. “ Sure- 
ly you will consult your niece’s feelings on these things ?” 

“ I shall consult my own interest, and not such rubbish as a 
silly jxirl’s feelings. I don’t intend to linger here to let Estrild 
see that young Olver again.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Yicat, you are past praying for !” 

“Now see here,” said that gentleman, turning on her with a 
sudden fury blazing in his pale eyes — “ I have already warned 
you that I won’t stand that sort of thing.” 

“But I can’t help it,” returned his wife, retreating, and drag- 
ging her chair with her as a rampart of defenca “ I am bound 
to pray for you.” 

“ Well, pray away as much as you like ; but take care you 
don’t interfere with my plans in any way except praying against 
them. That you are welcome to do ; but touch them with one 


94 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


of your fingers, and you and I have a quarrel which you won’t 
forget very soon.” 

The voice in which he said this would have chilled the marrow 
in the bones of a bull -dog ; it completely cowed the shrinking 
woman whose dull mind was little able to find words as weapons 
of self-defence. 

“ And one thing more,” continued Mr. Yicat, in the same tone 
— ‘‘beware of poisoning my niece’s mind with your silly opinions 
of my conduct. I forbid you to speak of me to her. Your judg- 
ment is altogether at fault with regard to what I have to do. I 
save her from a fortune-hunter — that’s a meritorious action — 
and I make her happy with my son — that’s another good 
deed.” 

“ I don’t know the 4aw,” said Mrs. Vicat, clasping both her 
hands now on the back of the chair behind which she stood ; 
“ but I believe you want the girl’s money for yourself, and per- 
haps her marriage with your son would give it to you. 1 know 
the law always takes away a woman’s money. ” 

“ Only to give it to her husband, my dear,” said Mr. Vicat 
jocularly, restoring himself to good humor in a sudden way. 
“ Estrild’s money will be Gilbert’s when he marries her.” 

Mrs. Yicat looked up ; some thought pressed on her mind for 
utterance which she hesitated to speak. If seemed to be a fear 
which she was reluctant to shape into words even to herself. 

“ You know that Gilbert,” she began, “ is not — is not in good 
health. He may never live to marry.” 

“ Yes, he will. I shall hurry the marriage ; afterwards he 
may 

“ Ho ; don’t say it ! ” cried his wife. “ You frighten me. You 
mean him to make a will and leave away the girl’s own estate 
from her to you.” 

“ He might so dispose of the personal property,” said Mr. 
Yicat quite calmly — “ and I see no wrong in a son taking care 
of his own father ; but the land could not be taken from Estrild 
during her life- At her death it comes to my son Gilbert under 
her father’s will, whether she marries him or not.” 

Mrs. Yicat drew a long breath, as if of relief. She was glad 
to hear that no machination could deprive Estrild of Langarth, 
and she guessed that the provision in the will over which her 
husband rejoiced could come into force only if she died unmar- 
ried or childless. Yet dimly, in her dull 'groping way, she fore* 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


95 


saw how this chance of heirship for his son might lead him into 
deeds of which she knew his nature to be capable and which she 
trembled to think of. She turned away from the subject in 
downright terror. 

“ Estrild will be thankful to have her cousin with her/^ she 
said. 

“Cousin! What cousin?” asked Mr. Yicat sharply. “I 
not going to allow any cousins to prowl around my niece.” 

“ It is a Miss Glendorgal who is coming,” returned Mrs. Yicat. 
“ I heard Estrild order a carriage to be sent for her.” 

“ And why didn’t you tell me this at once,” demanded her 
husband. “ It is just like your sense not to name a thing till too 
late to hinder it ! What a pitiable idiot you are 1 ” 

Mrs. Yicat was too much used to compliments of this kind to 
receive these words either with a burst of tears or of anger. 
She took them stolidly, without change of countenance or of 
voice. 

“ I saw no harm in Miss Glendorgal’s coming here to help 
Estrild to bear her sorrow,” she said. 

Mr. Yicat scowled at the fire without answering. He was 
wondering what Miss Glendorgal would do or say that might 
hinder his schemes. He knew her slightly and was slightly 
afraid of her. He was, in fact, afraid of everybody who might 
stand in the way of his snatching at the wealth which he was 
beginning to feel within his grasp. He listened for a moment to 
the fierce gusts of wind that were swaying the great trees with- 
out like reeds, and a smile of hope twfitched his lips and carried 
his thoughts away. 

“ There will be wrecks to-night somewhere,” he said ; “ and it’s 
an ill wind that blows nobody good. ” 

Mrs. Yi<;at stared at him with round frightened eyes, and then 
stole away without uttering a good-night. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

There is no day that does not bring the night. The sun of our 
joy has sorrow for its shadow, and the longest, brightest life 
rthat walks gladly through its day goes down at its setting 
|.to the night silence of the grave, and is lost in its thick dark- 
ness. 


96 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


There the veil falls and hides the great impenetrable secret, 
the vital mystery whose throbbing beats in every human heart, 
and whose longings run round the world in that electric chain 
of faith which binds this earth to the throne of God. 

Our day of life here is but a short dream, even if we reach the 
evening and stretch out our arms willingly to the shadow of 
fast falling night ; but, if at noonday or in the morning a man is 
cut down in the freshness of his strength, then the tears we weep 
are bitter, and we are galled with a sense of injustice, and 
deem the inscrutable hand of death has dealt its blow in 
cruelty. 

This was Estrild’s feeling as she sat alone in her gloom, her 
heart full of its new quivering sorrow and her mind brooding 
over many memories. 

It was hard — oh, it was bitterly hard — that he should die so 
young, that his happy life should have been taken in horror and 
mystery. Death, like an executioner in a mask, striking him with 
a swift and sudden blow ? And who was this man who had 
killed him ? Was he indeed innocent — guiltless as an execu- 
tioner is, who does but obey the unseen judge who directs the 
stroke ? 

This question brought an instant array of visions before her 
clothed in superstitious terrors, and she shrank from dwelling on 
it ; she thrust it away, being willing to wait till Harold should 
bring her a surer answer than her fears could give. By a quick 
transition of feeling she followed him in his quest, and a little 
pale gleam of joy shot into her heart at the thought of his brave 
and tender readiness to seek a solution to the mystery that 
shrouded her brother’s death. Yet in a moment is seemed a sin 
at this early time to quench her grief in a renewal of hope or in 
the thought of Harold’s love. It rather returned to her as a 
reproach, for it had shared her heart with Tristram, drawing 
away some of the affection that should have been all his ; and it 
was a bitterness to her now to remember this. Hence, in the 
jealousy of her grief, her thoughts flew morbidly from the consol- 
ation of her new love and dwelt only on the recollections of the 
older affection which had cherished her childhood and guided her 
youth with tender and protecting hand. 

Tristram was twelve years her senior ; he had been brother, 
father, guardian, all things to her that were true, loving, and 
helpful. He had saved her from the hard grasp of the man 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


97 


whose ruthless hands now were too ready to seize upon her as 
his lawful prey. At this thought she fell upon her knees with a 
low cry and buried her face in her hands. Oh, she had not 
been half loving enough in the old dear time gone now for ever ! 
She had let a stranger step into her life and steal her best 
thoughts. Even the very last hours of Tristram’s last day had 
been stolen from him and given to this new engrossing love. 

How could she forgive herself ? How could she look to it for 
comfort ? She could only regard it with a sort of angry amaze- 
ment, as a something strange, inexplicable, that had overpowered 
her and blinded her to the sorrow — the lonely sorrow — it laid 
upon Tristram’s life. She could read it all now on his sad face ; 
she could see how it had crushed him, disappointed all his hopes, 
and left him stranded on a solitary desert to fight his battle of 
life alone. 

She'could see too how he had hidden all this, and never un- 
bared to her by inadvertent word the soreness of his heart. Oh, 
she had been ungrateful, unkind, cruel ! She had forgotten all 
his long, long care, all her own promises, and she had deserted 
him for the first kiss of love from a stranger’s lips. But she 
would be true now ; she would remember how bravely he had 
resolved to live and die alone rather than bring upon some weak 
and tender woman the fear* that had haunted his existence, the 
dread that upon her children might fall a strange and sudden 
doom. She would prove herself brave too, and the vow she had 
uttered should be kept — yes, if all joy perished out of her life, if 
henceforth for her the sky lost its sunshine and the earth its 
greenness, she would keep her vow. No child of hers should 
ever shed such bitter tears as she was shedding now, no such 
horror as that now overshadowing her home should ever fall 
upon Harold and crush brain and heart beneath its liideous 
mystery. As this resolve ran with a shudder through all her 
nerves, she recognized the strength of her love, she felt and knew 
that beneath all her grief and morbid self-reproach it lay listless 
for the moment, but yet the great living fact of her life, the one 
source from which was to spring her joys and sorrows, her 
struggles, her temptations, and her victories. Without this love 
existence would be a blank ; she might seem to live, but the soul 
within her would be dead. 

She felt glad to think of it and to acknowledge its strength ; 
for, unless she loved, what would there be to renounce — what 

a 


98 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


would there be to suffer in holding to her vows ? Nothing ! It 
would cost her no more than the breath of her words, and sho 
might at last grow to deem it a folly ; but now, in the very 
might of her sacrifice, she would feel always its worth, and know 
that she had given up the best of her life rather than grieve 
Tristram’s spirit or work a cruel wrong on Harold. 

Ah, he would be angry at her resolve — he would grieve to 
part from her ! But this was a grief time would heal, whereas, 
if she became his wife, she would be forcing him to share her 
terrors — grown larger through her perjury — and she would see 
him day by day shrink from her in dread of the hand that 
through her would strike his children. 

But she would save him from this pain ; and in a little while, 
after the wrench of parting was over, he would forget her, and 
find some girl whose happier fate could be joined to his \^thout 
the terror of death setting them asunder through their lives. 

She wept as this bitter thought came ; and the sdent voice of 
her heart protested against it, and all her blood rebelled against 
the cruelty of it, and she was shaken to the core of her being. 

What, if she was sacrificing her life to folly — a dream — a mere 
superstition with no more substance than the rack of a summer 
cloud, which is but the shadow of a vapor 1 

Oh, if Harold returned with hope, with certainty, and this 
gloom was lifted from her heart and life grew natural again, how 
she would welcome his words of triumph, and fling her arms 
around him, and own that love was dear ? 

A low knock at her door made her start up hurriedly and 
smooth her hair and wipe her streaming eyes ere she gave the 
intruder leave to enter. The thought of seeing Mr. Yicat roused 
her blood into rebellion, and she stood, with a steady light shining 
in her wet eyes and a close firmness about her lips, like a 
creature waiting to receive an enemy. But when the door wips 
opened she sprang forward with a cry of relief, and flung her 
arms round the new-comer, and sobbed on her shoulder like a 
child soothed by its mother. She did not see how deathly pale 
the girl was to whom she clung; she only knew she was a com- 
forter and strong and helpful and this was enough. 

“ Oh, Pleasance, my dear, he is gone ! He was killed — cruelly 
killed !” 

She felt the straining of Pleasance Glendorgal’s arms around 
her, and checked her vehement words. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


99 


“ Have they told you how it happened she said more quietly. 

“ I have heard all there is to tell. Evidently it was an acci- 
dent ; and there must be great grief on board the ship that has 
gone to sea.” 

“ An accident !” repeated Estrild. “ No, no ; it was a murder ! 
And Harold has gone to seize the miserable man who did it.” 

“ My dear, there was no motive for a murder. What anger, 
what grudge could there be on board the King’s ship against 
your brother 'I Do not torment yourself with such a dreadful 
idea. Harold will return with proof to satisfy you that the 
hand that has bereaved us was innocent of all evil intention.” 

Estrild drew herself from the sustaining arms that held her, 
and looked upwards with clasped hands and eyes full of terror. 

“ Oh, Pleasance, you sign my death-warrant in saying that 1 
You mean that Tristram has been struck by the mysterious 
horror that haunts us and brings death to our house ?” 

“ My dear Estrild, calm yourself ! I mean nothing of the 
kind ! I mean an accident pure and simple.” 

‘‘ My father died by a seeming accident, and my grandfather. 
And how can I tell you of the long line of accidents that have 
snapped so many dear lives in the past, always the same circum- 
stances of mystery, the same shadowy hand from the world be- 
yond striking them down T* 

‘‘ I answer you that all this is but a superstitious fancy, born 
of old legends and the long list of fatalities in your family, which 
has cast a gloom on you from generation to generation, and 
fostered in your mind a peculiar phase of thought, a fixed super- 
stition which influences your lives and brings down upon them 
strange sorrows.” 

“ Yes, that is true ; it does indeed. It was this feeling which 
made Tristram give up all hope of happiness for himself. You 
know, Pleasance, that he had resolved never te marry” 

“ I knew it years ago, when you were a child.” 

Something in her voice made Estrild look up quickly, and then 
she saw a quivering lip, a pale face, and eyes deeply shadowed by 
memories long past tears. 

“ Pleasance,” she cried in a voice of sharp pain, “ I did not 
know these things had touched you to the quick. I never 
guessed ” 

“ Hush, my dear ! It is an old story now, buried out of sight 
beneath a load of years, and I cannot talk of it. He and I both 
agreed that you should never be troubled with it.” 


100 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ Oh, Pleasance, he was too good to me, and you too ! Who 
am I that lives should bs sacrificed for my small selfish peaee ? ” 

“ Not for that, dear, but for what he thought right — for the 
mistaken duty that is now misleading you.” 

Estrild gazed into the sweet pale face bending over her so 
tenderly, and wondered within herself whether she should grow 
to be like her. The curse that had blighted her fair life was 
ready to fall now upon her own ; and in time she might become as 
pale, as calm, as joyless as Pleasance was, without her peace. 

“Pleasance,” she said, “I shall never be so good, so patient 
as you. I long for happiness ; I feel that my life needs it, and 
without it I shall grow bitter.” 

“ Happiness is within you reach, Estrild. You have but to 
stretch out your hand and take it.” 

“ And you say that, who have had all joy wrenched out of your 
life by the same cause that threatens to make my existence bar- 
ren ? How can I believe you, with two such witnesses against 
happiness as at this very hour are beneath this sad roof — you 
the living witness, and the other the dead witness, of the terrible 
truth that we are — Pleasance, I must say it — that we are haunt- 
ed and pursued and slain by some power outside of this world.” 

“ It is a madness what you say now, Estrild.” 

“ There you put your hand, Pleasance, on the sore spot in our 
hearts. You repeat Tristram’s words. Either we are all mad 
who have dreamed this strange thing so long or it is a fact that 
some mystery — inexplicable, beyond our human ken — touches 
our lives and our deaths. Whichever may be the truth, marriage 
would be a sin.” 

Pleasance was silent. Her thoughts rushed back to the days 
gone by, when such reasoning as this had poured a flood of bit- 
terness over her heart, and she had bowed her head before it, 
powerless to resist its force. The anguish had passed, and she 
still lived ; but her life had lost its freshness, its joy, its spring- 
time, and the dead calmness of quenched hope that had settled 
on it made winter for her young years. She felt she was indeed 
a living witness to the reality of the mental terror — if it were 
nothing stranger still — that haunted the lives of the Carbon- 
ellises. 

She too had some of their blood in her veins ; and it was not 
without its own peculiar influence in the formation of her 
character. Perhaps some other girl, a stranger ignorant of the 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


101 


family superstitions, and totally unprejudiced and untouched by 
them, might have succeeded in flinging away Tristram^s fears by 
the very lightness of her own spirit and unbelief in them ; but 
she a second cousin, could not do this. Her father’s mother was 
a Carbonellis ; and she remembered too well how often she had 
sat at her feet as a child and listened to the old Langarth story 
of the dread dark rider who brought ever a message of death. 
She rememered too the awed whisper in which the aged lady told 
how her father fell in a duel fought foolishly and suddenly wflth 
a friend whom he loved before, and with whom he had but a trifl- 
ing quarrel. 

This unwilling antagonist had meant to fire in the air, but as 
he raised his pistol it went oflf, and Mr. Carbonellis fell dead, shot 
through the temple. Before they brought him home his wife 
knew that death was at her door, for the dark rider had sped on 
his journey, and his swift shadow had passed before her own 
shrinking eyes in the park. 

Pleasance was eight years old when Tristram’s father was 
drowned, twenty years before. Her grandmother was still alive 
then ; but the shock of her nephew’s death and the revival of 
the old dread story snapped the slight thread of her aged life. 

Pleasance remembered standing by her bedside and feeling the 
pressure of a trembling hand on her head, and hearing a blessing 
spoken in broken words — words which showed that she had a 
prescience of the love growing between the boy of twelve years 
and the little maiden of eight. 

“May God bless you my child, and make you happy ! Don’t 
love a Carbonellis. Old sins have spirits, and they haunt us, 
child. Lift up your little face and kiss me, and say a long good- 
bye. I am going away. Don’t forget me or my last words !” 

But she had forgotten them till too late. She had loved a 
Carbonellis, and her life was pale and broken and maimed. 

* * * * * 

That night when Mr. Vicat stole late to his room, his heavy 
tread paused for a moment before a locked door. Within he 
heard the murmurs of low-spoken prayers and the sobs of a 
woman. He hurried on with a softer footstep, owning to himself 
that he would not so watch and weep over the dead even for the 
heaviest bribe his covetous heart could desire. 

“ Estrild is in that room,” he said to his wife. “ Girls, for all 
their tears, have nerves of iron 1” 


102 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


But Estrild was sleeping. Pleasance had not left her or with- 
drawn the clasp of her own soft soothing hand till she had seen 
filuinber fall down upon her eyelids, and rest breathe a gentle 
oblivion upon her pain. 

If now her own grief seized upon her, and all the forced calm- 
ness of years was swept away in the first look, the first kiss of 
chill awe and anguish that fell upon a cold face, she knew that 
she was alone, and that no other human heart would be caused 
a pang by the sight of her sorrow. 


CHAPTER XV. 

The unmeasured wilderness of clouds and billows threatened 
black destruction. The solid sky rained hail like thunderstorms, 
which fell like one mass, battering and blending into one sound 
the clatter of its fierce onslaught. Mufiled round by a raging 
darkness, into which the lightning leaped as though it were a 
demon of fire made with the joy of destruction, the Curlew 
laboured on with Daniel at the helm and Michael at the prow. 

It was a battle between man and the elements. Harold re- 
cognized the fierceness of the struggle, and held his peace over the 
surging waves of gloomy thought which broke upon his mind as 
he saw the Alert go down. His quest now looked hopeless ; 
but often from its own wreck hope creates anew the form it longs 
for — to strive and hope again. So, though his best chance had 
perished, and lay among the drowned and dead, he did not de- 
spair or dream of failure. 

The little ship, tempest- winged, sped onwards wonderfully true 
to her helm ; and, catching every point of wind from the north, 
Daniel steered her safely away from the wild western shore 
whose bristling rocks, like savage teeth, hungered for their prey. 

Suddenly and sharply as it had come the hail ceased, and with 
its cessation the thick flaky ring of darkness, ever moving with 
them, that had bounded their horizon cleared, and a beam from 
the sun flashed across their wind-beaten track. Instantly it 
clothed the sea with light, and the prodigious waves, a moment 
before huddled in gray confusion, took shape and colour and 
grew lovely in their majestic strength. 

This breaking forth of the sun fell like a glory on the drenched 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


103 


and weary men, penetrating their frozen frames with the warmth 
of its divine flame, and filling veins and hearts with new life. 
Dashing wet hands across their eyes, they looked out on their 
storm-driven path with the joy of men from whom blindness 
has been lifted, and they glanced at each other^s faces with a 
smile. 

It was an electric signal — a mutual recognition that the worst 
was over, the danger past, the battle won. 

It was at this supreme moment, when the breath of the hur- 
ricane stood suspended, that there rose from the abyss of w'aters 
a call, a voice of human agony, faint as the cry of a spent bird, 
yet audible through its unexpectedness and its unlikeness to all 
other sounds around them — creak of cordage and thud of scatter- 
ed spray. 

At the same instant Michael, on the look out, shouted — 

‘‘ Boat ahead ! 

The cry from the sea had struck all hearts with an electric 
thrill, and veins grew hot and brave longing to save a life. And 
now Harold rushed to Michael’s side, and saw, right in the ship’s 
path — now engulfed, now rising again — the overturned boat 
which had passed out of sight with two men clinging to it just 
before the Alert went down. How it had drifted thus far who 
can say 1 Perhaps it had been caught in some current racing 
southwards, and thus had been driven into the Curlew^s path. 
One man could still be seen holding on to it for his life, the other 
was gone. 

For one second Harold gazed at the drowning, clinging figure 
with breath held on his lips, the next he had flung off coat and 
boots and sprung over the ship’s side. 

Daniel, who ever since his sight of a ghost had been a Metho- 
dist, and had not sworn for full ten years, swore now a round 
oath. 

‘‘ Damn the lad ! ” he cried. “ Does he want to swallow the 
sea? Lower the dingey, Michael. We must save him if we lose 
the boat for it. A cursed, foolish, brave — the Lord for-i^ 
give me ! — but there — I’ll say it out ; it is a damned brave 
thing ! ” 

“So it was,” said Josiah Martin. “But arter thic there 
jump he took I ain’t af eared of a little saalt waetur for 
’un.” 

“ Lower away I ” cried Michael, as he and the boy took their 
seats in the boat. 


104 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


And SO Harold, in trying to save one life, risked two others 
besides his own. But the men were glad of the risk. A brave 
deed, rash as fire though it be — makes hearts glow with love of 
it. And, though the men were dead weary, yet their veins ran 
with sunlight now — turning them into giants of strength. 

The dingey was lowered, and lived. It w^as a miracle j but 
there are times when miracles can happen. How they happen 
cannot always be told. There are no words coined to express 
the valiant deeds done by brave men in danger, when impossi- 
bilities shrivel up and smile upon their daring in quite another 
shape as victory. 

With wonderful f kill and seamanship Daniel tacked and twisted 
round the corners of t le wind and brought the Curlew nearer the 
drifting boat ; then he lufied and waited. 

Meanwhile Michael’s little craft lived ; and impelled by his 
strong arms, while Josiah took the tiller, it sprang swiftly after 
the struggling swimmer. Through what waves of water Harold 
fought or what a battle he waged for his very life he never knew, 
so intent was he on his purpose and so blind had he become to 
all sights save the one dark speck which, ever cheating him as to 
its distance, rose and fell before him as he swam determinedly 
forward. 

At length he was very close. His drenched eyes scanned the 
distance and counted the strokes with which he could reach it. 
But, when he got to the spot he had counted on, the boat was 
gone ! No, it rose again on a towering wave, and Harold flung 
out his arm wildly to seize it ; but it drifted over the crest of 
the wave, and plunged downwards once more out of sight and 
reach. 

Exhausted by this last effort, Harold was thrown back nearly 
senseless, and only instinctively able to keep himself afloat. 

“ Hold up, sir,’^ cried a voice ; and the dingey was close upon 
him, and Michael’s sinewy hand was stretched over the thwarts 
to grasp him. 

“ Michael, for God’s sake save that man, and leave me alone ! ” 
Harold gasped. “ I can take care of myself.” 

He said this as he hung on to the gunwale to gain his breath, 
but, not heeding his wmrds, Michael by sheer strength dragged 
him into the dingey and thurst an oar into his hand. 

“ Now, sir, give way with a will, and well save thic 
yet” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


105 


Harold saw the sense of this, and, though raging at the loss of 
time it had taken to pull him out of the sea he drew in a great 
breath of life and dipped his oar in the waves. They were not 
such mountains as those of an hour before. The tremendous 
downpour of hail had buffeted them and beaten them down some- 
what. 

And now Josiah Martin, with a wide smile, drew a life-belt 
from under his seat, and adroitly fixed it around Harold, 

‘‘ I throwed thic in the dingey afore she was lowered. I reckon 
now your ghost won’t haunt me,” he said, as he resisted success- 
fully the impatient movement made by Harold to hinder his 
officious attention. Not choosing to remove his hands from the 
oar, he had to bear the boy’s adjustment of the belt rather than 
lose time. 

Once more the drifting boat was neared, and so closely that 
now, drenched, storm-beaten, and dreadful, the face of the man 
clinging to it was visible to their strained eyes. 

Harold recognised him. It was the face of Captain Arm- 
strong ! 

His eyes flashed with the fire of burning hope, and the dingey 
flew beneath the arms of the strong rowers. 

JTow they were but a hand-breath away, and Harold flung 
down his oar and dashed himself into the sea, right upon the 
drifting boat. For a single instant both men were clinging to 
the wavering, tossing support, and they looked into each other’s 
eyes. 

A darkening mist came before Captain Armstrong’s sight, a 
black sea of things past thought swam before him, and the swell 
and rising of them in his dim eyes touched Harold, as a sword-point 
touches, with an icy thrill. 

He stretched forth his hand in desperate eagerness to save ; he 
almost had him in his grasp ; but the shadow of white death 
passed over the face of the drowning man, and, as the crest of a 
wave broke over him, he let go his fainting hold and sank as 
suddenly and instantly as a stone. 

The waves that buried him rolled on, carrying the boat with 
it, and Harold was alone on the heaving waters. 


106 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


CHAPTER XYL 

Harold had been gone three days, and no news of the Curlew 
or of the cutter had reached Langarth, but fears were in every 
mind for their safety. The storm that had raged for a night and 
a day left a huge swell upon the sea, and floating in on this 
came many a piece of drifting timber, telling of wrecks in the 
ocean beyond. As the change in the wind from north to south- 
west brought these to the ragged shore, the people seized them 
eagerly, and searched for some name or token by which to re- 
cognize the ship of which they were perhaps the sole remnants. 

“ It’s American timber — or Swedish — or it’s a piece of a Sun- 
derland ship ! ” cried the men, whose practised eyes enabled them 
at once to read these strange stray records of the storm which 
the sea tossed carelessly upon the shore. 

Upon every reading such as this hearts were delighted, and 
the word was passed on that the drift-wood lying at their feet 
did not mean the lives of men dear to them. 

At the Coastguard-station perched upon the cliff* high above 
Langarth church tower the Preventive men stood, wind-battered, 
glass in hand, constantly on the look-out for the ship that would 
never return. 

Rumours of disaster were floating in the air, and men and 
women, when they met and stopped to talk a moment on the 
surf-lined sands or on the windy heights above the sea, filled 
their speech with stories of wreck and storm. 

Mr. Yicat picked them up as he strolled about in a prowling 
way, and brought them home to Langarth, and frightened his 
foolish wife with them, knowing she would carry them with a 
scared face to Estrild. But a Cornish girl who knows and loves 
the sea in all its changing aspects is not easily terrified by tales 
of its dangers and its wrecks. She had faith in Daniel Pascoe 
and his boat ; there was not a better sailor between the Lizard 
and the Orkney Isles than he, nor a stouter little ship upon the 
five seas than his. No harm would come to Harold while he 
was with Daniel. She had known him weather much worse 
storms than this had been. After all, it was but a capful of 
wind ; it was not a hurricane such as she had seen at times on 
this wild coast. 

Pleasance listened with a slight wonder in her mind that a 
girl so naturally brave, so heedless of physical dangers, should 
quail in terror before the false alarm of imaginary fears. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


107 


Mrs. Yicat had made herself friendly ; she came at times to 
Estrild’s sitting room and brought to her and Pleasance such 
cheerfulness as was in her power. Sometimes with a frightened 
air she delivered affectionate messages from Mr. Vicat, with 
entreaties that his “ dear niece would at last grant him an 
interview. But this Estrild still persistently refused. She 
would see her uncle, she said, when Harold returned, but not 
before. 

Her resolve chafed that gentleman into a furious determina- 
tion to prevent a meeting between her and Harold by means law- 
ful or unlawful, as circumstances would permit. 

Thus things went on till the fourth day, and then Mr. Yicat 
returned from his daily prowl with his mouth full of news — news 
so important that he considered himself justified in forcing his 
presence on his niece. Accordingly he betook himself to her 
sitting-room, and, without knocking at the door, walked in, big, 
pompous, and aggressive. 

Pale to the lips, Estrild rose as he entered, and confronted 
him with an undaunted mien. 

“ Sit down, my dear,’^ said Mr. Yicat airily ; “ I have some- 
thing to tell you.” 

“ I will not hear it, returned Estrild, still standing. “You 
and I have not been friends for a long while, uncle ; and I will 
discuss nothing with you until Harold comes back.” 

“ Mr. Olver will never return here,” he rejoined. “ The Pre- 
ventive cutter is gone down with all hands — not a soul saved. 
And report says that the Curlew^ in trying to save two men 
drifting on an overturned boat, ran also on the rocks and went 
to pieces.” 

‘He had blurted this out with no more feeling than a pump 
has when it pours forth a stream of water. His voice was hard 
as iron, but Pleasance saw in his eyes a gleam of satisfaction 
shining like two little pin-points of fire. She came forward to 
protect Estrild, who stood as if turned to stone, her blood chilled, 
her heart tightened as by a grasping hand. 

“ Mr. Yicat,” said Pleasance, “ I must ask you to leave us. 
My cousin is not in a fit state to hear further ill news ! ” 

“ I do but my duty in telling her the truth. Miss Glen- 
dorgal.” 

“ I doubt the truth of your statement,” said Pleasance, taking 
Estrild’s 1 and in hers to reassure her ; “ you confess you have 
only heard a report.” 


108 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


‘‘ I do. But the loss of the Alert is, I assure you, confirmed. 
They have had certain information of it at the Coastguard-sta- 
tion. As for the Curlew 

“ The Curlew is safe,^' interposed Estrild, in a voice so calm 
that Pleasance looked at her in surprise. “ Daniel is too good a 
sailor to run his boat on a reef. Oh, 1 am quite certain of seeing 
Harold again ! 

Her words brought a twitch to Mr. Yicat’s lip. 

“You seem to possess a remarkable confidence in this said 
Danieks skill, he said; “but I would nevertheless advise you to 
prepare your mind for the worst. The storm on the coast of 
Brittany — indeed on all western coasts — was much more violent, 
I am told, than it appeared on this southern beach.” 

“ And therefore Daniel would exercise due caution, and not 
approach too near a dangerous coast. Oh, I am not at all afraid 
of his safety and all with him !” 

Here was an extraordinary girl ! She was still white as 
marble, and evidently trembling from head to foot, yet she could 
brave him like this. Her fears then arose from some other 
cause. 

“ Upon my word, I shall have more trouble with her than I 
imagined,” he thought, as he glanced furtively at her resolute 
face. 

“ Have you anything more to say, Mr. Yicat asked Pleas- 
ance quietly. 

“ A great deal more. Miss Glendorgal. I must discuss now 
with my niece the question of the inquest.” 

“ Surely not !” exclaimed Pleasance growing very pale. There 
can be no necessity to pierce Estrild’s heart with these dreadful 
details.” 

“ There is very urgent necessity,” he returned angrily. “ She 
has been sending letters to the coroner imploring for delay ; she 
has been countermanding my orders in every way ; and it is time 
now I should put a stop to this interference with law and 
decency !” 

He had shown his cloven foot, and, what was worse he had 
taken his stand on it, as though daring them to shake him an 
inch from his position. 

“Estrild,” asked Pleasance suddenly, “has Tristram left no 

will r 

“I perceive the drift of your question, Miss Glendorgal,” said 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


109 


Mr. Vicat with a smile of malice. “I am happy to he able to 
satisfy your curiosity. I ascertained two days ago from my 
nephew’s solicitors that he has left no will. His father’s will 
therefore stands. Indeed he had no power to set it aside unless 
he had married ; provision was made in that case for him to 
execute a new settlement of certain lands and appoint a new 
guardian for his sister.” 

The sweet pale face, into which he looked with a smile of in- 
solent power, had flushed painfully ; his words called up dead 
hopes from their graves, and for a mpment Pleasance was power- 
less to answer him. Mr. Vicat took advantage of her silence to 
assert himself again. 

‘ ‘ Perhaps, Miss Glendoral, you can take in the situation now 
at a glance. It is a responsible one. In consequence of my 
nephew’s death I become under his father’s will sole remaining 
trustee and executor, also sole guardian of my niece.” 

The man swelled as he spoke with a venomous importance and 
sense of power. He had crushed Pleasance, who had sunk into 
a chair and covered her face with her hands in a burst of tears, 
but he had roused Estrild s courage, and she confronted him now 
with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks. 

“ If you insult my cousin by addressing another word to her, 
you will find, Mr. Vicat,” she said, ‘‘ that the servants in this 
house still obey me. I am perfectly acquainted with my father’s 
will ; and there is no provision in it requiring me to receive you 
as a guest at Langarth !” 

Mr. Vicat was startled ; he was unprepared for such language 
as this, and he was anxious not to quarrel .downright with the 
niece whom mentally he called a headstrong termagant. 

‘‘ My dear Estrild,” he said, in a conciliating tone, “pray don’t 
mistake me ! I am your best friend, only too anxious to order 
all things for your happiness. I thought it right to let Miss 
Glendorgal know that I had the power to act as I thought wisest 
for your interest.” 

“ That is quite enough,” she answered. “ I wish you also to 
know that I am possessed of exact information as to the length 
and stretch of your power. I can apply to the Chancery Court, 
if I choose, through my cousin, for the appointment of another 
guardian ; and, if you stretch the cord too tightly, Mr. Vicat, I 
shall do it.” 

Here was another astonishment for that gentleman — and in 


no 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


those days, when the ignorance of women was intense and com- 
plete, it was an astonishment that filled him with a ghastly yet 
ludicrous surprise ; it took his breath with secret fear and 
rage. 

“ Who has been coaching you in law ? he asked, endeavour- 
ing to smile. “ I fear your legal tutor was not very learned.” 

“ It was my brother,” she answered, her eyes filling with tears. 
“ He made me perfectly comprehend what my position would be 
if — if he should be taken away from me. Pleasance, you know 
he always expected this.” ^ 

The change in her face as she turned to her cousin, the sudden 
whiteness and quiver of her lips, the fear in her eyes, did not 
escape Mr. Ticat’s notice. He put all this down mentally as the 
facts to be reflected on and understood by-and-by. 

‘‘ Chancery is ruinous work,” he said carelessly ; “ and, if I 
resisted any application of Miss Glendorgal to that court, the 
suit would most likely last out our lives.” 

But Estrild’s interest was gone in that dispute ; she scarcely 
appeared to listen to him. 

“ If the Alert is really gone down,” she said, looking at him 
with that strange fear still shining wildly in her eyes, “ this 
dreadful inquest need no longer be adjourned. Get it over if you 
will ; I have no evidence to offer.” 

This sudden change of subject — this sudden submission — filled 
Mr. Yicat’s mind with wonder. He pondered it a moment, fixing 
his gaze on her face, scanning the fear on it, and recalling the 
expression of terror which had flashed whitely over it on her 
hearing him announce the loss of the Alert Dimly the truth broke 
upon him, and he felt he had seized a weapon that he could use 
with effect. 

“ No, there is not the slightest evidence to offer, so you must 
prepare yourself, Estrild, for a vague verdict. It is doubtless the 
old story — only an accident ! ” he said, as he shrugged his broad 
shoulders and glance at her furtively. 

“ Not that — oh, anything but that ! ” she answered, putting 
up her hands as if to shield her face from the sight. 

“ Would you prefer they returned a verdict of wilful murder 
against some person or persons unknown ? ” he asked, turning 
his head as he was leaving the room. 

“ It would be the truth, I think — I hope,” she said drearily. 

Pleasance roused herself on hearing this. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Ill 


** Oh, no, Estrild ; you do not hope anything so cruel ! You 
cannot wish such a terrible accusation to be flung at an innocent 
man who cannot defend himself — a man already before his Judge. 
Remember, my dear, the Alert is gone down.” 

“ And with it all explanation of the mystery,” observed Mr. 
Yicat, who was pausing at the door. “ By-the-by, Estrild, I 
have omitted to tell you that my journey here came about 
through a singular occurrence. A stranger called on my wife and 
told her we should be wanted at Langarth. She was startled to 
recognise a likeness of him in a queer old portrait you have in 
the library.” 

One glance he took at her face, then he closed the door and 
went away. 

“ Estrild,” exclaimed Pleasance, putting her arms about her, 
“ you frighten me ! Are you faint ^ ” 

“ No,” she answered, turning her blanched face towards her. 

“ It is a folly,” continued Pleasance — “ a device of Mr. Yicat’s. 
He tries to terrify you as he would a child.” 

Estrild made no reply ; she stretched out her hand to the bell 
and rang it. Then she said quietly — 

“We shall hear what Prior says. I shall only believe what 
he tells me.” 

When the old man appeared, strangely altered in these few 
days, curiously subdued and pitiful, a single question elicited the 
fact that the Alert was indeed lost. 

You see, Miss Estrild, I had the news from the Sivift — the 
craft, you understand, that the Alert went out to pursue.” 

Yes, Estrild understood ; she knew the crew of the Swift would 
not bring a false report. 

“ So the Swift has seen the Curlew and spoken her ? ” she said. 
“ That proves she is safe.” 

Prior hesitated ; a wistful look was in his eyes. He glanced 
at Pleasance, and seemed to gather courage from her calm face. 

“ The Curlew is safe ; I^m sure, miss. Daniel isnT a man to 
run his ship ashore. But the Curlew^ s boat was in danger when 
the Swift passed her.” 

“ The boat ? ” repeated Estrild. 

“ Yes, miss — the dingey. Daniel lowered her to save— I 
mean to try to save — a man — or two men, maybe it was — 
who drifted by clinging to an overturned boat belonging to the 
Alert” 


112 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Estrild hesitated a moment ; her lips seemed parched. She ' 
drank a little water which was on a table near, then spoke. 

“ Was Mr. Olver in the dingey, Prior ? 

The old man twisted his words warily to save his conscience. 

“ I reckon, miss, the men aboard the Swift couldn^t rightly say 
they saw him there,” he answered. 

“ Then of course he was in the Curlew f Estrild said, as a sigh 
of relief broke from her lips. 

She was looking down, and had not seen Prior’s face. Pleas- 
ance almost knew that behind the mask of calmness that the old 
man so resolutely were there Jurked evil tidings or a terrible 
dread of evil. They both exchanged signals of silence before 
Estrild looked up and spoke again. 

“ Two questions more, Prior. Have you heard any strange 
account from Mrs. Yicat about a visitor to her who is 
like ” 

“ Well, miss,” said Prior, interrupting the question eagerly, in 
his relief to escape from demands harder to answer, I have 
heard something of it. But she’s a lady with a head like a 
barnacle — just a shell, like, with nothing in it Her stories be of 
no account — mere strams, miss ! ” 

“But she said it?” — “Well, miss, I wouldn’t say she didn’t.” 

.Again Estrild hesitated, and again she drank some water 
quickly. 

“ Prior, were the men from the Alert saved who were clinging 
to the boat ? ” 

“ The Swift asked that question too, miss ; and Daniel sig- 
nalled back they were both drowned.” 

He waited a moment, but Estrild said no more ; then he went 
away sadly, closing the door with a quiet hand. 

After an instant’s silence, in which Estrild uttered not a word, 
but sat with head resting on her hand gazing blankly out at the 
dim sky, Pleasance rose softly and stole away. 

She found Prior waiting for her on the staircase. 

“ Mr, Olver was not in the dingey, miss. It was worse — he 
was drifting away on the wrecked boat. The dingey was labour- 
ing hard to overtake him, and Daniel was tacking and following 
as he best could.” 

Pleasance felt giddy ; she held by the baluster to support 
herself. 

“ Could the Swift do nothing ? ” she said faintly. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


113 


“The captain lowered a boat, miss, but it filled directly. 
Luckily there was no one in it. He had no other boat — one had 
been carried away in the storm. He sailed away then, seeing he 
could do nothing.’’ 

For a moment Pleasance made no answer ; she passed her hand 
across her forehead in bewilderment. 

“ You can guess, now, how it happened,” Prior continued. 
“ Mr. Giver was trying to save the man.” 

“ Yes,” said Pleasance vaguely. “ Oh, yes, I know he is brave 
and rash 1 This must be kept from Miss Estrild.” 

“ And from Mr. Vicat, please, miss ; he would rejoice to tell 
Miss Estrild.” 

Pleasance said “Yes” again in the same vague way, and 
hated Harold for a moment as bringing fresh sorrow to Lan- 
garth. 

“ Mr. Vicat mustn’t hear of the in no way at all, miss,” 

resumed Prior uneasily. “The Coastguard-men are mad as fire 
against her because of the Jlert, and Mr, Vicat has oogliness 
enough in him even to turn informer. She hasn’t dared put in 
here, she’s gone to a safer port.” 

At another time Pleasance might have smiled at the old man’s 
outspoken sympathy with the smugglers ; now she turned away, 
too sick at heart to say a word more than to simply promise 
silence. 

She returned to Estrild, and found her still seated in the same 
attitude. 

Pleasance was afraid to speak, least her voice should betray 
her anxiety ; but no doubt of Harold’s safety had seemingly 
touched Estrild’s thoughts. She looked up, saying in a quiet 
despairing way — 

“ Hot one left living to clear away this horror from my mind ! 
All drowned ! And Tristram is dead ; and Harold and I parted 
for ever ! Oh, Pleasance, Pleasance, how shall we bear it and 
live?” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

In that moment of supreme agony, of bitter disappointment, as 
the life he had risked his own to save passed out of his grasp, 
sinking beneath the touch of his hand and the sight of his eyes, 


114 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Harold felt nothing of his own danger. Neither at the time, in 
his passionately eager longing to hold and save him, had any 
thought touched him of the infinite importance to himself of 
Captain Armstrong’s life. But now, as the huge herded waves 
gathered about him and folded him round, bounding his horzion 
from one pastureless height of liquid greenness to another, he 
awoke to the sense of his own peril, and to the remembrance of 
all that Captain Armstrong’s death meant for him. He was not 
sorry that, at the passionate moment when he was burning and 
battling to save him, he had forgotten it ; but all the stronger 
now was the rush of memory that flooded his mind with bitter- 
ness. 

It was well for him that he had a life-belt on, for in his over- 
whelming sense of failure and disappointment he had for a 
second or two forgotten that his energies and presence of mind 
were needful to be used to their utmost powers if he wished to 
save his own life. 

In plunging deeply down into the sea, as fie had done after 
the sinking man, he had of course relinquished his hold of the 
wrecked boat, which had drifted fast away. Now he found him- 
self in the same strong current that had carried this to the path 
of the Curlew, and he felt himself borne along by a resistless 
force from which there was no escape. Could Michael overtake 
and rescue him ? This question seemed to be in the air, on the 
waves, and in his heart, burning away his strength. He could 
see ahead of him the derelict boat, sometimes as a mere streak 
far away, sometimes as a black wall deceiving the eye by its 
apparent nearness. 

The Curlew seemed miles away, at a hopeless unapproachable 
distance ; her boat — though he knew it near — was nowhere 
visible within his tossing, heaving horizon. 

Born and bred on the wild West Coast of Ireland, he had 
practised swimming from a boy, and had often shown himself as 
much at home upon the sea as on the land ; hence he had the 
courage and confidence of long custom, and the fearlessness of 
skill and strength. Yet now he felt these failing him in this 
swift current, where apparently all his skill and strength availed 
nothing. So he ceased eflbrts which were only useless and ex- 
hausting, and floated onwards, gradually losing thought of life 
as he drifted to the edge of that darkness that borders death. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


115 


“ Aise your oaar, and back waater for life, or the boat will go 
over ’un !” 

The voice was close at his fainting ear, and he looked up with 
dazed eyes, and saw an oar held out in Michael’s strong hand ; 
and in an instant he had clutched it, and life with all its fulness 
rushed through his veins again. 

Another moment, and with a strong pull Michael had got him 
into the boat, and laid him down softly in the stern, with his 
head leading against Josiali’s knees. 

“I bet you feel whizzy and slaipy like,” said that youth, look- 
ing down on him with immense satisfaction. “You’ve keeped 
on rolling and tumbling like a porpois out for a holiday, till 
Michael and me most broke our hearts rowing arter 'ee. I 
reckon you waen’t forget this swim for a long spell.” 

“ Hould your tongue, you young buflle-head,” said Michael, 
“and let the wind blaw a little breath into Mr. Olver! He 
cain’t spaik yet.” 

“ How long have I been in the sea f ’ asked Harold. “ Is it 
hours since Captain Armstrong sank ?” 

“ Don’t you trouble about he,” returned Michael. “ Nothing 
will vex he never more. He was born to be drowned ; ef not, 
you would have saaved ’un — that’s sartain. Here’s a drop of 
raal French brandy. Lucky I had et en my pocket ! There — 
that’ll do ’ee good.” 

This was true, and Harold felt that he was Jiimself again after 
a pull at the flask. 

“Your head don’t feel se whirly now, I reckon?” said Josiah, 
with great solicitude. 

“ Well, it still feels rather as if I had a swarm of bees in it,” 
returned Harold, beginning to recover ; “ and 1 shall be thankful 
to get dry. It’s aTong pull, Michael, yet to the Curlew.^* 

“ Never you mind — we shall be aboard directly ; and I’m not 
going to give you an oar,” said Michael. “Just you hould ’un 
tight, Josiah, or he’ll be jumping in the sea again arter some- 
thing or other.” 

Josiah, doing as he was bid, clutched Harold’s arm with one 
hand. 

“ Lor’, jimmeny, you be as could as a dead conger ! ” he said 
pitifully. “ I shall look arter ’ee a bit now, since I’v saaved 
the life in ’ee by thic there belt.” 

“Well, Josiah, I believe that’s about true, and I’m grateful; 


116 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


but you needn’t hold me as if I were a slippery live fish instead 
of a half- dead one.” 

“ Have ’ee swallowed a good deal of say ? ” asked Josiah. 

“ No ; I’m too good a swimmer for that ; but I could not 
struggle out of the current — I got a little exhausted in trying.” 

“ And you thoft you wes hours there, but ’twas aunly min- 
utes. Me and Michael maade the boat fly, I can tell ’ee ; and 
’tes well the sea have dropped as it have, or we shouldn’t have 
picked ’ee up so quick.” 

It was joy to be on board the Curlew again, and feel her stout 
deck beneath their feet, and in the warmth and comfort of food 
and fire forget the evil dream of danger and death through which 
they had passed. 

But it had cost a hard struggle on the part of all hands before 
this was done — first to get the boat close to the ship, and next 
to haul her to her old place on deck — and Daniel waited till 
this was done before he grasped Harold’s hand and welcomed 
him back to life. 

“ I thought ’twas a poor job,” he said, “ when I seed you 
floating along like a bit of wreck. I gived ’ee up for a minute or 
two, and I couldn’t do nothing ; neither could the 

“ Have you spoken the Swift ? ” Harold cried eagerly. > 

“ Iss sure ; and I’m afeard it’s a whisht story they’ll taake 
back home about you, for they reckoned sure you’d be drowned.” 

“ But they won’t .say that at Langarth, Daniel, surely ? ” 

“Well, they’ll say it ; but the young lady won’t be tould — 
never fear that ! ” 

Harold drew a breath of relief ; it would be consoling one day 
to let Estrild know that he had done his best, but not now, in 
the midst of her sorrows, did he wish any terror to come near her 
on his account. 

“ It was strange I never saw the Swift f he sMd. “ In fact, 
I saw nothing but the wave coming and the wave going, and that 
horrible boat ahead like a black dream. And had the Swift no 
news to give you of the Alert ? ” 

“ None ; we gave her the news, and they took it home with 
’em. There’ll be whisht talk to-night at Langarth.” 

“ And they had seen no boat belonging to tlie Alert ? ” 

“Aw, my dear, how should they, when they put miles and 
miles of say between themselves and thic craft ? They didn’t 
want to see her — that’s sartain.” 


PLOM THE OTHER SIDE. 


117 


“But a boat, Daniel — mightn’t they have seen a boat creeping 
in shore to some port ” 

“ Lor’ V mussy,” said Daniel, “ boats be running too much on 
your mind, Mr. Olver ! In sich weather as the Alert met she 
wouldn’t lower a boat, 'cept maybe to send a king ashore. IVe 
heard say kings can’t be drowned.” Then he laid his brown 
hand kindly on Harold’s shoulder. “ See here, Mr. Olver — Cap- 
tain Armstrong was a braave man ; I’ll give ’un his due, though 
he was risky in his way of sailing, and he wouldn’t lower no 
boats to thraw away lives. When his ship was on the reef, he 
maybe tried to saave lives thic way, but ” 

“ But long before then, Daniel, to save one life, he may have 
risked others.” 

Daniel look at him with that sort of pity that a man has 
for a sudden craze in another, and then shook his head 
decisively. 

“ There’s times when a boat is worth fifty lives ; and in sich 
foul weather as poured down from the sky yesterday and laest 
night Captain Armstrong wouldn’t thraw away his boat ef he 
would hes men. The Alert catched the storm hours afore we 
did ; she was right in the paath of the oogly thing ; and ” 

“ Yes, I know, Daniel ; she had six hours’ start of us, and the 
question in my mind is. Where did she go in that time ? ” 

“ Come in the cabin ’long with me, and I’ll show ’ee the chart 
and every inch of the track she sailed on.” 

Harold went, and saw, and was not convinced. In his mind 
there lurked still, in spite of all reason, the ‘latent certainty that 
Captain Armstrong would have run any strange and abnormal 
risk to save the man who had taken Tristram’s life. It was in 
vain that Daniel, by arguments as to facts well known to sailors, 
proved the impossibility of any boat living and reaching the shore 
during the tempest that had beset the Alert from the hour she 
left Lan garth. 

“ Well, she herself might have put into some port,” persisted 
Harold. 

“ Wouldn’t she have stopped there ef she had % ” asked Daniel. 
“ Nobody but a pattick w’ould hoist sails to be blawed to rags 
outside a harbor ef they wes saafe inside of 'waun.” 

“ But Captain Armstrong was just such a pattick or simple- 
ton ; you have owned he was a rash man. And the long and the 
short of it is, Daniel, that we must go back on the track of the 


118 


PROM THE OTHER SIDS, 


Alerty and I must visit every port she has passed into which she 
might have run.” 

Daniel whistled, and then stopped, remembering that is was 
unlucky to whistle at sea, as he might raise the wind again. 

“ Of course, Daniel,” continued Harold, as he noted the old 
sailor^s hesitation, “ I shall make amends to you for lengthening 
my trip.” 

“ No, no, Mr. Olver — I baan^t like that at all ; for simming to 
me, a man that would take money for keeping to a bargain es no 
man at all. You hired the Curlew for a week — well, for thic 
time you’re capen of her, and taake her where you will, and I’m 
pilot. Now, then, if you will, we’ll maake for Morlaix ; thic’s 
the first port on our way back.” 

‘‘All right, Daniel — Morlaix let it be.” 

Daniel walked forward at once to give orders, saying as he 
went — 

“ Aw, no, my dear, I hope I’m different to that, to take more 
money for sticking to a bargain ! Aw, no ; foul weather or fair, 
no money for that.” 

Harold felt as though a load were lifted from his heart as the 
little ship tacked and turned to the west. His desire to hunt 
Q’ristram’s assassin down was growing on him like a fever, and 
e\ery step he took in the race made his veins bound with a sort 
of angry pleasure. 

“ There is no danger now, Daniel, in taking this course, is 
th(<re ?” he asked. 

‘ ‘ Danger ?” repeated Daniel. “ Why, the wind is chopping 
rou od from a lion to a lamb ; and I’m going to turn in for a good 
sped of slaip; and Michael taakes the helm.” 

^ rith a nod his tanned and weather-beaten face disappeared 
within the cabin, and, left alone, Harold paced the deck, full of 
man 7 thoughts. 

It was marvellous to note how the trouble of the sea had sub- 
sided into calm, and how the swift green waves grew ever lower 
and J >wer, as though the Curlew in gliding over them smoothed 
them with her breast as they smiled back with the shadow of 
her white wings. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


119 


CHAPTER XYITT. 

With the cessation of the storm the wind had changed to the 
south, and thre was a softness in the air like the touch of flowers. 
But the sky was heavy with clouds, while fold upon fold de- 
scended on the sea, covering it with a white garment, fleecy, im- 
palpable, and yet so insidiously strong that sky and sea and aii 
were blended into one by the sweep of its fall. 

“ This is thick weather, sir,^^ observed Michael, as Harold 
passed near the binnacle. 

His voice sounded curiously far away, though it was close by ; 
and Harold stopped to wonder at it a little before he answered- • 

‘‘The fog seems to make one deaf, Michael, as well as blind. 

“ Aw, iss ; Tis like a blanket round one^s head : it stifles sight 
and hearing,^^ returned Michael, in a tone of disgust. “ ^Tis a 
a French sea ; and the fog is French oogliness, I reckon.’' 

Mindful that Michael had charge of the helm, Harold moved 
away so as not to be drawn into talk ; and once more his 
thoughts rushed back to Langarth and to all it held of dear and 
precious and sorrowful. 

The inquest, the funeral, would be over before his return, and 
Estrild, uncomforted save by her cousin, would have to bear all 
this alone. His presence would have upheld her and consoled 
her ; yet he felt impelled to go on. He could not return and 
give her the history of his voyage as a blank failure ; it would be 
too cruel. 

An hour went by and he still paced the deck, his mind a prey 
to thought, while the Curlew sped onwards like a blind bird 
through her soft and fleecy path. The fog stood on her right 
hand and on her left, a white wall towering from sea to sky. 

Suddenly, as they sailed thus quietly on, Daniel emerged from 
the companion-way with wild, scared looks ; and, rushing for- 
ward, he thurst Michael violently aside, and, seizing the helm, 
dipped it with all his force. 

Down went the Curlew into the waves; but the little ship 
rose gallantly again, and obeying her helm, turned sharply with 
a raised prow, to starboard. 

Instantly on the larboard side a huge black wall loomed out 
from the midst of the white mist, and towered above the Curlew 
portentous and dreadful. It was a tall East Indiaman, a giant 


120 


PROM TnE OTHER SIDE. 


for strength and size, her masts lost in the high fog, her hull ablack 
monster ready to crush and devour. 

She sailed slowly by, so close that the wash and spray of 
her path sprinkled the white faces of the men on the deck of 
the Carlew^ who gazed out on her in pale amazement. 

From their high vantage ground a group on her quarter- 
deck looked down on the little Curlew^ and a strong voice cried 
out — 

A near shave ! Another moment and we should have cut you 
down ! ’’ 

This was not said without a few oaths, which the fashion 
of that time thought good, and the fashion of this time leaves 
off as bad. 

Harold did not hear Daniel’s reply ; his nerves, he feared, were 
shaken, or he was suffering from some strange hallucination, 
for in the midst of the white mist he fancied he saw 
Estrild’s face. In another second he perceived that the face 
that had given him the singular impression of being hers was 
that of a slight lad who stood a little apart from the group 
on the quarter-deck. As the figures in this group became 
more visible to his somewhat scared sight, thelikenessof thisyoung 
face to Estrild’s vanished ; but it bore a pale wistful look which 
still reminded him of her, and he glanced pitifully at the lad, 
deeming him in ill-health. 

The dreadful danger of collision was over, the great ship had 
passed, but, by aid of his trumpet, the officer on deck was still 
exchanging words with the Curlew. 

‘‘ How did you weather the storm ? ” Daniel had asked. 

“ We ran into Brest,” was the answer. “ What news from 
England ? ” 

“ None. But we saw an English ship go down off the He de 
Bas.” 

“ What name ? Do you know ? ” 

“ Yes ; the Alert — Captain Armstrong. All hands lost ! ” 

There was no audible reply ; but a signal was run up, dimly 
visisble in the mist. 

What do ’em want now,” said Daniel testily, as he peered 
at the little flag through the glass. “ Ah, they be lowering a boat ! 
Slacken sail 1 ” he cried in angry humour. 

“ It was done ; and the little Curlew lay to sullenly, her sails 
limp and the mist hanging about her shrouds. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


121 


Very soon the measured beat of oars travelled through the 
vhick air, and looming through its ghostly vapour appeared a 
boat, like a picture on a dream-sea, with six oars falling in ^le 
water in one sweep, and a young officer in the stern holding the 
snowy tiller-ropes. He half rose and lifted his gold-laced cap. 

“ We are sorry to hear of the loss of the AlerL Can you tell 
us if Captain Armstrong is saved ? 

“ He is drowned ; we saw him sink ! And then rapidly 
Daniel told the story of his death, and Harold’s efforts to rescue 
him. 

The young officer as he listened looked at Harold, and raised 
his cap again. 

“ His friends will thank you, sir,” he said. 

‘‘ Mind you,” observed Daniel, “ Capen Armstrong stood by 
his ship till he was washed overboard. How he faaled in with 
the boat arter the Alert went down I can’t tell ’ee.” 

“ There is no need to tell me that a British officer did his 
duty,” said the young mate in answer. “ There’s a brave man 
gone, and brave men with bim ; and their lives lost for a set of 
vile smugglers ! 

The strong word in this speech brought a flash to Daniel’s 
eyes. 

“ Have ’ee got anything more to say ? ” he asked. “ Ef so, my 
son, you may as well say it civil.” 

“ Oh, certainly ! ” returned the other. “ If you are going back 
to England at once, will you kindly take charge of these letters 
and post them ? ” 

‘‘ I’m pilot. There’s the capen ; ask him,” said Daniel. 

Harold at this stepped forward. 

“ It will be some days before we reach an English port,” he 
said ; “ but I will gladly charge myself with the letters and post 
them at the first opportunity.” 

“ Oh, I am sure we are much obliged ! And our captain is 
sorry to have stopped you and delayed you in this way ; but you 
see he did not like to lose the chance of sending letters. Here 
they are ! ” 

The packet was tied round with twine and handed up with 
some difficult. Harold took it and placed it in his pocket. 

“ I am glad to do you this little service,” he said. “ What is 
the name of your ship ? ” 

“ The Atalantay bound for Calcutta with troops. You see/* 


122 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


continued the young man, with a wistful tone in his voice, it’s 
a pretty long voyage out, and it’s such a chance to send letters 
home, you know.” 

“ Don’t apologise. Good-bye, and a fair voyage to you ! ” 

“ The same to you ! ” 

Caps were raised, oars dipped in the water, and the boat was 
gone like a dream, as it had come. The mist opened for it 
closed on it, and hid it so swiftly that, but for the sullen thud of 
the oars, it might have been deemed to have sunk beneath the 
colourless sea. 

Afar in the whiteness the great ship floated, a dim strange 
vision — a spectre ship, with ghosts upon her spars standing in 
the clouds, wrapped in white garments of mist, and hollow 
voices wafted from out her stillness like thinnest echoes rising 
from graves. 

Harold watched the ship fade away into the deeps of the 
glimmering white darkness,Avith a curious quiver of coldness upon 
all his flesh, and a sense of loss, as though a bird had been in 
his hand which had flown away, carrying some message with 
him which he ought to have gathered from beneath his 
wings. 

He recovered from his strange feeling with a start, and knew 
he ought to speak to Daniel and thank him for their lives. But 
for him the Atalanta with one blow would have struck them all 
down to death. 

He came to the binnacle, just in time to hear Michael say — 

“Well, Daniel, I reckon I may ax ’ee now why you knacked 
me down ?” 

“ 1 didn’t mean to do that, my son — I only wanted the helm. 
It’s well you caaled me on deck ” 

“ I never caaled ’ee on deck,” said Michael, astonished. 

Daniel looked grave. 

“ Well, soas [friends], then I’ll tell ’ee what happened,” he said. 
“ You do knaw I wes dead weary, and I slaiped sound, but I 
dreamed that I wes out of my bunk and hustling with a rush of 
waater. Then, simming to me, I woke, and heard a voice caal- 
ing, ‘ Daniel, came on deck ! ’ With that I thrawed myself out 
of my berth and rushed ’pon deck. Then I seed the graate oogly 
black thing looming out of the fog, and I said to myself. 
‘ ’Tis sink or save ! ’ and I thrawed Michael aside and dipped the 
helm.” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


123 


“ *Twas sink or saave, sure ’nough/’ said Michael, in an awed 
tona “ And you raaly dreamed that, Daniel, and heerd thic 
voice ? 

“ ^Tis true as I am here this minute, stanning up alive, ’stead 
of lying down there dead ! ” said the old man, pointing with his 
left hand to the sunless waves. 

“ Then you be a man to dream dreams and see visions,” re- 
turned Michael. ‘‘ And I b’lieve now you seed thic ghost. I 
thought afore ’twas a stram.” 

Harold listened, pondering the subtleties of that inner sense 
that some men possess which gives them warnings or tokens of 
danger, and speaks in secret ways not understood by those of 
coarse fibre, whose nerves can never thrill with a mystic touch. 

“ Under Providence, your dream saved our lives, Daniel,” 
he said, as he grasped the old man’s hand in a hearty shake. “ I 
wish a dream would come to me,” he added, with a little wistful 
laugh. “ I have the queerest feeling about that ship.” 

“ And well you may, sir ; she was nigh ’pon sinking us.” 

“ No, it’s not that ; ” and, feeling he could not, explain the dim 
chaos of thought within him, he turned away. 

That evening the Curlew anchored off Morlaix. 

The next morning the earth seemed to have broken out into 
blossoms against the sun, and the sky was as the vast cup of a 
blue flower, and the little ripples that ran round the ship were 
all alive and aflame with sunshine. 

Harold landed, and questioned and searched, and wearied, and 
earched again, and could hear no tidings of the Alert or of Eng- 
lish boats or Englishmen rowing ashore. 

Josiah went with him, and stared and wondered at the Bre- 
tons, their full nether garments, their many buttons and sashes. 
He looked up at the shops over which was written — “ Butun 
Mad ” — words which in Breton mean “ Good tobacco.” 

‘‘ Button mad ! ” said Josiah. “ Yes that’s just what they be, 
and too lazy to hould their pipes ’cept with their teeth, for their 
hands be always in their pockets.” 

The Curlew sailed away from Morlaix that night, and the 
history of -the day was a blank. 

Again and again this happened, as, sailing from port to port, 
Harold wearied and questioned, and, heart- sick at failure, yet 
questioned again, and could learn nothing. 

It became a certainty to him at last that no boat had crept 


124 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


away from the Alert to land and save the guilty man who had 
slain Estrild’s brother. 

So he had gone down with the doomed ship, and the mystery 
of Tristram’s death was unsolved and unsolvable now for ever. 
With this sad result for all his labour and risk of life, he reached 
Langarth with a heavy heart, after an absence of ten days. 

He stopped not a moment to have speech with any one, but 
landed in the little bay he had compared to Jafhx, and hurried 
up the narrow rugged cliff-walk with every vein tingling with 
expectant love. 

One touch of a soft hand, one kiss from sweet clinging lips, 
and he and sorrow would be far apart, and he should be repaid 
for those nights and days of weariness and danger. 

Yet how chill and desolate the house looked as he appoached 
it ! The day was bright, yet there was not a window open. In 
the little balcony by Estrild’s sitting-room, at which he looked 
longingly, there was a dead flower and a bird-cage. It was 
empty. His heart fell. Was it possible she could be ill. 

He had come close to the old oak door unnoticed, unseen, and 
now he rang softly, with careful but trembling hand. 

A moment or two of feverish waiting, and Prior’s face, pinched 
and pale, met his anxious gaze. 

“ Oh, Mr. Olver, I’ve whisht news for you ! They are gone ! 
Mr. Yicat has taken Miss Estrild away to London. There’s only 
Miss Glendorgal here ; she waited to see you.” 


CHAPTER XIX 

Pleasance Glendorgal came forward and grasped Harold’s 
hand in silence. The pale hue of suffering on her face and the quiver 
of her lip told plainly that in the sorrow that had fallen on 
Langarth she had borne a full and perchance silent share ; in her 
thoughts it was perhaps the most bitter pang of all that she had 
no right openly to grieve. 

As she relinquished Harold’s hand, he flung himself into a 
chair and began to question her with almost angry eagerness. 

“ Why is Estrild gone '{ Why did you let her go ? I hoped you 
would protect her against this tyranny. I could not — I would 
not have believed it possible that, after sending me on such a 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


125 


quest, she would leave Langarth without hearing from my own lips 
the result of my search.” 

“ In leaving Langarth she was not a free agent,” said Pleasance 
sadly — “ you must know that, Mr. Olver.” 

“ I cannot say that I know it,” returned Harold, in a bitter 
tone ; “ for I know Estrild is not without courage — not without 
spirit : therefore she could have resisted Mr. YicaPs will. She 
could have remained here — she ought to have remained till my 
return ! ” he added passionately. 

“ I think she feared the pain of seeing you again, since it 
would only have been to say that she and you are parted now for 
ever.” 

Harold gazed at her for a moment in blank amazement ; then 
he smiled incredulously. 

“ Is that Mr. VicaPs decree ! I think he will find himself 
mistaken. Estrild will never say such words to me of her own 
free will, and I care nothing for what her relatives say. I shail 
carry her off in spite of them all.” 

“ I am glad you feel like that,” said Pleasance, “ for you will 
have need of all you faith and courage ; because it is not Mr. 
Vicat you will have chiefly to fear ; it is Estrild’s own terror and 
gloom which will separate you, unless you can hold your love in 
spite of the estrangement which she will assuredly deem it her 
duty to plant between you and herself.” 

The young man's face fell. In these words he. recognised the 
fulfilment of the dark presentiment that had chilled his heart 
when he saw Captain Armstrong sink into the waves beneath 
his outstreched hand. 

“ I fear you are right,” he said sorrowfully. “ I knew some- 
thing of this before I went on this fruitless voyage. Estrild 
spoke to me of her superstitious terrors before we parted, but I 
could not believe she was in earnest, 1 did not think she would 
desert me from a motive so utterly unreasonable. I cannot 
believe it now — I feel I should be mad to believe it.” 

“ I am not surprised to hear you say that” — and Pleasance 
flushed as she spoke — “but I have seen and known what a Car- 
bonellis can do under the influence of the gloom and fear, that 
have now become hereditary. It needs a little Carbonellis blood 
in the veins to understand a Carbonellis and to love still,” she 
added, as the flu^h on her cheeks died away, leaving her very 
Dale. 


126 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ What can I do T said Harold, pressing his hand on his fore- 
head. “ How can I knock down all this ancient pile of preju- 
dice and gloom ? I cannot talk of it to Estrild as I do to you, 
because, you see, poor Tristram, who fostered her superstitious 
fancies, was her brother.” 

Pleasance winced, yet answered bravely — 

“You can do nothing for the present. The shock, the grief 
Estrild has suffered are too recent to allow of her listeninor to 

O 

reason ; be constant — that is the sole thing you can do.” 

“ I am not afraid for my own constancy ; it is Estrild’s that I 
fear will be shaken. Influences will be brought to bear upon 
her of which 1 will know nothing.” 

“ But none of these things will move her,” returned Pleasance. 
“In my opinion Mr. VicaPs power is a mere thread in 
strength, which she would break in a moment for your sake ; the 
danger of enstrangement between you lies solely in her own tem- 
perament; and unfortunately her very love for you becomes 
through this the means to that end.” 

“You are a Job’s comforter. Miss Glendorgal,” said Harold, 
with anger in his voice. “ I am not going to believe that Estrild 
will play into Mr. Vicat’s hands in that weak way. If she loves 
me, she will stand by me.” 

Pleasance looked at him sorrowfully ; in her experience she 
had known a Carbonellis love and leave his love, even for that 
love’s sake. And now, like the shadow of her own sad past, she 
felt the darkness about to fall upon Harold’s future years, and 
her heart was touched with grief for him. 

“ What you think and feel is natural and sensible,” she said ; 
“but you must remember that you have not to deal only with 
common sense and nature. In the Carbonellis blood there is a 
sensitiveness to things beyond our ken — things which appear to 
us mere shadows, but which to them are real and terrible.” 

“ I am sure of it,” said Harold, in the tone of a man who hated 
the subject touched on. “ To fling down Estrild’s delusion,! went 
on a wild adventure which has failed. I have nothing to tell 
her when we meet, and she will not thank me for having risked my 
life ; apparently this has counted for so little that she has gone 
away without caring to see me — without leaving for me a 
woid cf kindness. 

Pleasance saw that the leaven of bitterness was already work- 
ing in him, and she hastened to speak. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


127 


“No, no,” she cried ; “ you are mistaken ! Estrild left many 
words of love for you ; she spoke them with tears — her heart was 
full of you. A thousand tender thoughts of you rose to her lips 
continually ; in speaking of you she seemed at times to forget her 
sorrow.” 

“With me she would forget it altogether!” exclaimed the 
young man eagerly. “ Can you not see. Miss Glendorgal, that a 
happy life filled with love and duty is the only safeguard for 
Estrild against these morbid delusions that prey upon her 
mind ? ” 

“ I see it all, and I see also the difliculties you will have to 
encounter. You know you can always count on my help,” 
she added. 

He took her extended hand gratefully, but a shadow of pained 
thought still rested on his face. In very truth he felt the diffi- 
culties of his position more keenly than he cared to acknowledge ; 
his narrow means and Estrild’s wealth, and Mr. Vicat’s power 
and enmity were all tangible obstacles stretching like a wall 
■between him and his love. Besides these, there stood that 
shadowy barrier, strongest of all, which Estrild had built up in 
her superstition, and which already had parted them, though his 
attempt to break it down had nearly cost him his life. 

“ What was the verdict at the inquest ? ” he asked abruptly. 
“ You have not told me yet.” 

“ I feared to vex you ; it was the very one that Estrild dread- 
ed. The jury returned a verdict of accidental death.” 

“ There was no evidence to that effect ! ” cried Harold 
hotly. 

“ Pardon me — the only evidence offered pointed to that alone. 
I grant it was but hearsay ; the men who were with you in the 
boat when — when you brought Tristram away repeated the 
statement made by the officer on the Alert. You will remember 
.he spoke distinctly of an accident.” 

“ I remember it,” said Harold gloomily. 

“ And, the Alert and her whole crew being lost, no other wit- 
nesses were forthcoming,” resumed Pleasance, “ so necessarily 
the verdict was rather vague. The jury found that Mr. Car- 
bonellis met his death by a gunshot wound, the result of an acci- 
dent on board the Alert ; but how it occurred or by whose hand 
the shot was fired there was no evidence to show.” 

“ Of course the superstitious jurymen rejoiced in their ver 


128 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


dict/^ said Harold, in contemptuous anger. “ They were glad to 
add another cloud to the Carbonellis gloom. Oh, I can under- 
stand all the wild talk of a credulous people, and how it has 
added to Estrild’s distress and terror ! 

“ I confess it has done her harm ; and in her mind the verdict 
adds weight to her fear and makes it reasonable ; it is impossible 
to argue agains the conclusion she draws from it or against the 
proofs the facts she brings forward to justify her beliefs.’^ 

Oh, if I could only have saved one life — one witness from 
that accursed ship ! ” cried Harold, clenching his hand in his 
passionate pain. Miss Glendorgal, I will live yet to prove that 
Tristram Carbonellis was wickedly and wilfully slain, and his 
death was no accident/^ 

“ Do not say that,^’ said Pleasance, in a trembling voice. 
** Who could mean him harm ? ” He was a man greatly be- 
loved.” 

Then, to Harold’s surprise, she gave way suddenly, and bend- 
ing forward with face hidden in her hands, she burst into tears. 

A light fell upon him instantly, and he saw now what an 
effort it had cost her all through their interview to hold herself 
calm and yet talk of Tristram. For an instant he let his eyes 
rest pitifully on her bowed head ; then he rose and silently left the 
room. 

“ So her life too is ruined ! ” he said to himself bitterly. “ And 
this is what a Carbonellis can do, and deem it right ! A lovely 
and loving woman left to wither in the wreck — and for what 1 
A fantasy, a phantom with no reality in it, except the suffering 
it brings. I shall grapple with the thing and kill it.” 

He said this as he went slowly in search of Prior, conscious at 
the same time of a cloud of images rising in his own brain 
antagonistic to this resolve and to his reasonable belief in its 
possibility. 

Tristram’s dead face and Captain Armstrong’s sad eyes, for 
that one dread instant as they met his before the wave covered 
them, seemed to float before his vision in silent protest. 

Unknowing, in this phase of thought, whither his steps led 
him, he found himself in the library, and started to see before 
him the potrait of the Crusader with the dark pale face and pas- 
sionless eyes of the stranger who had crossed the ferry with him, 
and ridden in advance of the coach on the night, now seemingly 
so far in the past, of his journey to Langarth. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


129 


“ The likeness between them is at least no dream, and the man 
was real enough ; there is no mistaking flesh and blood for a 
ghost, he said half aloud. “ But it is queer, and there is more 
in it than I can understand, but not more than I will fathom 
and find out,” he added quite aloud as he turned and saw Prior 
standing near him. 

‘‘ I wish you would, sir,” said the old man earnestly. “ The 
family have been troubled long enough. 'Tis time such things 
should cease, and that man’s spirit rest.” 

Harold was in no mood for laughter, yet a short and somewhat 
bitter laugh might have broken from his lips but for the lines of 
grief on the old man’s face, which showed him how ill-timed it 
would appear to him. His master — the last heir of an ancient 
family — was dead, his young mistress was an exile, her house 
shut up in gloom ; and he was left here in solitude to brood over 
the strange events that had stricken from it at one blow light, 
love, and life. No ; truly Harold could not laugh at Prior’s 
beliefs, for they were inextricably mingled with his sorrow and 
with the grief lying heavy at his own heart. 

“ I suppose now this sort of notion that the family is haunted 
— or hunted down to death — has been going on for a long while 
he said. 

“ Oh, for hundreds of years, sir — ever since the first Carbon- 
ellis was found dead in the wood yonder, with a tree that had 
been left half felled lying across his chest !” 

“ But that was evidently a simple accident. Prior.” 

“ But he called the woodman away,” returned Prior, pointing 
to the picture ; and the dog who had been watching his master 
flew at it when it was shown to him.” 

‘‘That’s a very doubtful story,” said Harold, stooping to 
examine the painting ; “ for this portrait is certainly not more 
than two hundred years old, whereas the first Carbonellis — as 
you call him — must have lived in the time of the Crusades, if he 
was brother to this man !” 

“ I can’t count back like that, sir,” rejoined Prior, with a 
puzzled air; but I’ve heard say the first picture of this poor 
wronged man was in a panel somewheres in the old part of the 
house which was tore down, and afore it fell to pieces, the Car- 
bonellis who lived then had it copied by a rare painter in London. 
There’s a piece of the old panel at the back of the picture, sir.” 

Harold turned it round to the light on hearing this, and on 
I 


130 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


brushing away a thick coating of dust, he perceived that two 
pieces of oak pannelling, blackened by age, were let into the back 
of the picture. On one, amid the smearings and markings of 
time, there gradually grew Visible a face more haggard and worn 
than that on the canvas, and yet the same. As Harold gazed 
on it, he was fain to acknowledge to himself that this worn and 
marred visage brought to his mind even more vividly than the 
other the pale set face of the strange man whose mad ride to 
Langarth had apparently made him a messenger of doom. 

“ I cannot deny the likeness,^’ he said, with a half-sigh, as he 
drew back a little, the better to gaze at the dim blurred portrait. 
“ And now in this light I see a shadowy resemblance to Tristram 
himselh Yes, this is undoubtedly a Carbonellis ! 

“ We all know that, sir.” 

“ I mean,” resumed Harold, carrying on his thought ^‘that 
likenesses descend in familiea Is there no other branch of the 
same name ” 

“No one, sir,” interposed Prior eagerly. “It would be a 
whisht story for Miss Estrild if there was, for then she would 
lose Langarth.” 

I -‘Howr’ asked Harold. 

“ Because, sir, they could only be descendants of the Crusader, 
and he was the elder brother.” 

Harold set this remark aside in his mind to be thought over 
and inquired about at some future, happier time, when he and 
Estrild should be together. Meanwhile he scrutinised the picture 
again. 

“What is this on the other longer bit of old panelling. 
Prior ? ” 

“ That^s the Crusader hand — the hand that brings death to 
Langarth — so the folks hereabout say,” rejoined Prior unwill- 
ingly. “ ’Tis mere talk, sir — not worth telling about,” he 
added, as he lifted the heavy painting to replace it against the 
walk 

“ Stop a moment ! ” interposed Harold. “ There is a hand 
certainly holding a scroll, and there are some words written on 
it. I want to decipher them.” 

“ You^il never do that, sir,” said Prior uneasily. “No one 
will till the right day comes. Times out of mind, I have heerd 
say, learned men have come to Langarth at its master’s bidding, 
and none could ever read what’s writ there,” 


FROM THE OTPiMl SIDE. 


131 


With pocket-book and pv^ucil in hand, Harold knelt on one 
knee, endeavouring to copy the irregular half-defaced characters 
on the panel, while Prior, with evident unwillingness, held the 
picture upright. 

Pleasance entered while they were thus engaged, and stood for 
a moment silently near them. She was perfectly composed and 
calm, and her sweet voice had no tremor in it when she spoke at 
last. 

“ The characters are Arabic,’^ she said. 

“So I am just discovering,’^ said Harold, “but I can make 
nothing of them.’’ 

“ I was sartain of that,” observed Prior. “ And ’tis a heavy 
piece of work to hold up, sir.” 

“ Stay one instant longer ! There is a word or two I can read 
and copy.” 

He scratched them into his pocket-book, and then rose from 
his knee and showed the page to Pleasance. 

“You see the word I have made out is ‘Cumberland.’ It 
seems to have no bearing either upon Palestine or Cornwall ; 
nevertheless it may be a help to me one day, and then perhaps I 
shall make out the whole ” 

“ I hope you’ll never do that, sir, if ’twould ruin the one you 
love best ! ” said Prior, as he hurriedly set the portrait in its old 
place against the wall. “ 1 wonder the Squire Corbonellis who 
had this painted ever saved they gashly bits of wood from the 
prison-picture 1 ” 

“ The prison-picture ? ” repeated Harold. • 

“ It was so called,” answered Pleasance, “ because, as the story 
goes, it was one copied from the wall of his prison by the Crusa- 
der, who on his unexpected return was seized by his brother and 
held in prison till his death.” 

“ How did he get his paints 1 ” asked Harold, with all the 
scorn of common sense. 

“ Oh, we must not question these old legends too closely ! But 
it is said that he brought his pigments from the East, and was 
allowed to use them. It is added that they were so firm in 
colour and so strong that the wall of the dungeon had to be 
pulled down in order to destroy the picture ; it always worked 
through every wash laid over it. At last, at the dawn of better 
times, when the then master of Langarth had the dismal cell 
destroyed, a travelled priest from Italy copied the prison-picture 


132 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


on an oak panel ; that in its turn fell a prey to time, except the 
fragments you have examined, which perhaps were preserved to 
prove the authenticity of the likeness, and also maybe because 
the painter could not copy the characters you have endeavoured 
te decipher. You perceive that in the painting of the seven- 
teenth century the scroll is left out ? 

“ Ah, the Carbonellis of that day were afraid of what it 
tells,” said Prior, “so they wouldn’t have it put in the new 
picture ! ” 

“The London painter declined to tackle Arabic, I expect,” 
said Harold. “ Nevertheless I wished he had been as learned 
as the priest ; I might have read the cabalistic message 
then.” 

“ It is supposed to contain a threat and prophecy of the doom 
that awaited the wrongful holders of Langarth. Tristram had a 
doggrel verse which is said to be a free translation of the words. 
Perhaps Estrild may know it.” 

“ I do not think I will ask her,” returned Harold. Then, as 
he and Pleasance quitted the room together, he added, “ I can 
scarcely imagine how, on the foundation of a mere legend, such a 
wild, mad belief in fatality has been built up, to the injury and 
saddening of so many human lives ! ” 

“It is strange,” said Pleasance, “and not more strange than 
true.” 

“ What — do you believe in the imprisoned Crusader and his 
curse, his prison-picture, and all the rest of it ? ” asked Harold 
with some impatience. 

“ I believe that tradition ever has a germ of truth in it,” said 
Pleasance. “And I know the Carbonellises die by fatal acci- 
dents ; and strip this fact as you will of all that is mystical, the 
dark rider remains a mystery still.” 

“ I see you have Carbonellis blood in you,” said Harold, not 
thinking his words were cruel. 

“ Yes ; and so has Estrild. You must try to remember it in 
all your dealings with her.” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


133 


CHAPTER XX. 

Estrild^s journey from Cornwall to London was a prolonged 
torture. Shut up within the cramped space of a close carriage 
with Mr. and Mrs. Vicat, compelled to hear their wrangling 
voices breaking in upon her troubled thoughts, forced to bear 
the odious contiguity of a man whose touch, whose tones, whose 
whole individuality was repulsive to her, and obliged at times to 
suffer his civilities and hypocritical solicitude for her comfort, 
her nerves were rasped into fierce agony, and at last on reaching 
Salisbury, they broke down, and she was seized with a strong 
hysterical attack. This hindered her journey for some days, and 
it had the happy effect of ridding her of Mr. Yicat^s presence. 
Growing impatient and angry at the delay, he hired a post-chaise 
on his own account, and left his wife to come on later with 
Estrild in the carriage. 

“ Mind, if that young Irish fortune-hunter follows us, I look 
to you to prevent an interview between him and my niece,” he 
said to his wife on parting. 

‘‘ How can he follow us if he is drowned, as you have been 
continually reiterating all along the road V asked Mrs. Vicat. 

“ He is no more drowned than I am,” snarled her husband, 
with vicious emphasis. “ Haven’t you seen that the girl has taken 
no notice of my assertions ? She has had secret information of 
his safety for certain.” 

“ I am glad of it,” said Mrs. Vicat. 

“It is a pity for him that your gladness is of no importance 
either to him or to me,” sneered Mr. Vicat, as, buttoning himself 
up in a many-caped great-coat, he betook himself to his chaise, 
which presently rumbled off, leaving a pleasant echo in his wife’s 
ears which spoke of a few days of peace. 

His departure was an instant relief to Estrild ; the tenison of 
her nerves ceased, and she rallied from the moment that the in- 
cubus of his presence was lifted from her mind. In very truth, 
in the present state of her nerves, weakened by grief and terror, 
she had been unable to endure the antagonism which existed 
between her nature and his, and Avhich chased through every 
vein, rousing her into constant battle. Relieved from the fire 
of this warfare, peace grew about her again and soothed her 
into the calm sleep which for so long had fled from her over-ex- 
cited brain. 


134 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“She is better — much better,” said the dapper little doctor 
who attended her, to Mrs. Yicat ; “ and you can take her for a 
walk to-morrow. Let her see the cathredral and be interested 
in it if she can ; and, above all, don’t let her be worried about 
anything. She has had some great trouble, you tell me — well, 
don’t let her have any little ones if you can help it. She is 
doing very well now. I only wish my other patient was getting 
on as nicely.” * I 

“ Have you another patient in the hotel, doctor ?” asked Mrs. 
Vicat, with a dull curiosity. 

“ Yes ; and he too has had a great trouble — an only son 
drowned, gone down in a ship which perished the other day with : 
all her crew. Poor man, he is half mad with grief ; nothing i 
soothes him but music, and that I can’t give him. Ah, there are I 
many Sauls in this world, but few Davids 1 My dear lady, we 
doctors are obliged to praise drugs, but there are times when I 
feel inclined to cry with Macbeth, ‘ Throw physic to the dogs — 
I’ll none on’t!’” 

“Macbeth!” repeated Mrs. Yicat, pondering. “Oh, yes, I 
remember — that’s Mr. Kemble I I saw him once, and was i 
rather frightened. Mr. Yicat has not let me go to the place j 
since.” 

The brisk little doctor stared at her for a few seconds, and a 
smile came into his eyes. 

“ Quite right not to go if you are frightened ; there is no 
pleasure in fright. Ah, here comes the mail 1 ” he cried, as the 
sound of a horn rang merrily in the street. “ I wish it was 
bringing good news to my poor patient. Well, good-bye 1 I’ll 
call again to-morrow.” 

He hurried off, and Mrs. Yicat went up to Estrild’s room with 
vague ideas in her mind respecting Saul and Macbeth and the 
unknown sick man who wanted to give his physic to the dog. 

“ I wonder if you could sing to him, my dear,” she said to 
Estrild, who was lying on a sofa not far from the window. 

Being used now to Mrs. Yicat’s ways, this question caused 
her no surprise ; so she only said quietly — 

“ Of whom are you thinking, aunt ? ” 

“ Of Saul, my dear — I mean the poor gentleman who is ill 
here. He is always craving for music, the doctor says ; and he 
throws his medicine to his dog.” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


135 


“ Is he a little mad ? ” asked Estrild, with a slight fear spring- 
ing into his eyes. 

“No, my love — only trouble like yourself. His only son is 
drowned — went down in some ship a little while ago.” 

“ Was it the Alert ? ” cried Estrild, springing upright instantly. 
“ Go directly — go at once, aunt, I entreat you — and find out for 
me if it was the AlerV^ 

“ My dear, I can’t go into a strange man’s room and ask — ” 
But here Mrs. Vicat stayed her speech, for Estrild, pale as 
death was gazing through the window with eyes brimful of sud- 
den tears. In starting to her feet, the mail-coach, now standing 
in front of the hotel, had become visible to her, and she saw 
Harold just descending from the box seat. It was a surprise as 
full of pain as of joy. She had known he was safe by a sure 
word brought to her before she left Langarth, and she had 
schooled herself to leave without seeing him, deeming it best for 
both. And now he was here, close by — within reach of her eyes, 
her hand, her voice ! One word spoken, and she could call him 
to her side, and sorrow and terror would be forgotten within the 
circle of his arm. Oh, to rush forward to the joy of his strong 
loving clasp, and full of that bliss, feel the earth once more light 
beneath her feet and the air warm and sunny about her ! But it 
was not to be ; the short-lived happiness would only make her 
lifelong woe the more bitter. Could the momentary joy appease 
the weary longings of the heart in the dull aching years to 
come ? Oh, no, no ; it would be but as a slow fire, wasting it ! 

“ Harold, my love, my love, I will spare you this misery ! ” 
she cried inwardly, as, crouching low on the sofa, as if to hide 
from his gaze, slie yet strained her eyes with fixed yearning upon 
the window. 

“ What is there out there to alarm you?” cried Mrs. Vicat. 
“ The mail is only changing horses, and the passengers have 
alighted to dine. Why are you frightened ? ” 

“ I am not frightened — I am not ill,"' said the girl hurriedly. 
“ How long does the coach wait here ? Can you tell me that ? ” 

“ Why, just half an hour, my dear ! And short enough time 
too for the passengers to bolt their dinner in ! ” 

Thirty minutes of agony ! How should she bear it ? Thirty 
minutes to be within the reach of his voice, within the touch of 
his warm hand, and yet to refuse both — thirty minutes of great 
possibilities of intense happiness, and then the black impossibility 


136 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


of it, and the seeing him be driven away, departing out of life for 
ever ! 

Thirty minutes ? Why, ten of them were gone already ! — and 
dragging her watch from her belt, she fixed her eyes on it in a 
sort of terror ; and then, falling upon her knees by the window, 
she leaned upon the sill and kept watch upon the coach, as though 
holding it back by the cords of her strained heart. 

Meanwhile Harold, unconscious of her being so near him, had 
entered the dining-room, and, in compliment to the box seat, 
found a place reserved for him next the landlord — who, unlike 
landlords in general, was a thin nervous man with an anxious face. 

“ Yes, sir,^’ he was saying to a passenger on his left hand, “ I 
remember your travelling down on the night I lost my bay 
mare.’^ 

‘‘Well, and have you recovered her and found the thief?’' 

“ Oh, Pve got the mare again ! It was not a thief that took 
her — it was a gentleman who — who was very hurried, I suppose, 
since he took the mare on French leave. However, he paid well, 
so I’ve no cause to complain.” 

“ And so there was no mystery about the business at all ? ” 

The landlord did not appear to hear this question, but turned 
to Harold, who had eagerly addressed him. 

“ Since you were paid for the horse-, you will of course know 
the name of the gentleman who rode her.” 

“No, I don't,” said the landlord doggedly. 

“ But how did the money come to you ? ” 

The landlord grew a little uneasy, and asked several people if 
they wanted gravy. This business over, Harold repeated his 
question in a lower voice. 

‘‘ Well, as my wife says, it isn’t of much use to ask questions 
over good gold. But certainly the money came in a queer way. 
I found a packet of guineas, sir, on the table early in the morn- 
ing.” He lowered his tone to a whisper in saying this, and 
glanced round him with a scared look. 

“ The horses are being put to, gentlemen,” said the guard’s 
voice at the door. 

“ The bay mare will be one of the team to-day, sir,” continued 
the landlord. “ She’s all right now, but she was terribly done 
up, to be sure, when she came back to me from the Yeovil stable 
where that queer rider left her.” 

“ And where he took another horse, I suppose ?” observed the 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


137 


gentleman on the left. “It is very odd, but this is the third or 
fourth time in my journey up frera Exeter that I have heard ot. 
this eccentric traveller and the queer way in which he choses to 
pay for his misdeeds.” 

“The same thing has happened to me,” said Harold, “in my 
long journey from Cornwall ; but this is the first time I have 
heard of the money being found on a table. In the other case it 
was in the pocket of the saddle, or some little child brought it, 
who would give but a very imperfect account of the person from 
who he received it.” 

“ The coach waits, gentleman ! The inside passengers are 
already seated ! ” said an ostler, appearing suddenly at the door. 

The two or three ‘men who had remained at the table rose in- 
stantly and rushed off to secure their seats. Harold alone lingered. 
A strange desire had seized upon him to renounce his place, 
give up his journey, and remain where he was. A strong 
feeling had rushed upon him that he should find here a solution 
to the mystery that was wrecking his life. There was a voice 
within him calling upon him to stay, or to repent for years if he 
would not listen ; there was an indefinable longing at his heart 
to remain. The electricity of Estrild’s near presenc.e was around 
him, holding his feet by invisible chains. 

For an instant or two he stood irresolute, instinct and reason 
waging a fierce war within him. The guard’s horn sounded a 
note of warning, the ostler’s voice called upon him in hurried 
accent to be quick, the landlord’s hand urged him gently towards 
the door. All these were the coarse, visible audible adjuncts of 
reason ; and they prevailed over the subtler, truer sense which 
had neither hand nor voice, and which yet protested in every 
nerve, as with unwilling feet he pushed his way through the 
little crowd at the inn door and mounted hurriedly to his seat. 

The guard drew a sounding blast from his horn, the coachman 
held his whip aloft with a flourish, the team dashed off, and his 
Majesty’s mail had started on the road to London. 

Then a window was dashed open and a wild cry went out to 
the unheeding wind. 

“ Harold — Harold ! Oh, my God, he is gone I It is too 
late ! ” 

The despairing cry rang through Mrs. Vicat’s kind heart and 
dull brain. She lifted Estrild from the floor, to which she had 
fallen, and laid her on the sofa. 


138 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


‘‘Was Mr. Olver on the coach, my dear? Well, well, cheer 
up — it is all for the best that he is gone ! I could not have let 
you see him, you know, because Mr. Yicat gave me strict orders 
that you were not to meet ; and I should not have dared disobey 
him. I am sure it was very good of you, my love, to avoid an 
interview with Mr. Olver for my sake. I shall not forget 
it.” And Mrs. Vicat stooped and kissed the pale cheek of the 
girl, whose anguish, being past the relief of words, was borne in 
silence. 

So perhaps this was the light in which Harold would regard 
her conduct ! He would be told that she had sacrificed him in 
obedience to Mr. Vicat’s commands, and in consideration of his 
wife’s dull peace. Oh, it was bitter ! And she had done fool- 
ishly in letting him go without a word ! Might they not even 
speak to each other ? Might they not love a little longer before 
parting for ever ? And turning her face from the light, Estrild 
wept bitter and remorseful tears. 


CHAPTEB XXL 

Postage in those times was so heavy that it was looked on as 
a meritorious act to cheat the Post-Office in any possible way. 
Travellers carried bundles of letters in their pockets or portman- 
teaus to distant friends, and members of Parliament availed 
themselves to the full extent of the privileges of franking which 
then prevailed. It was therefore under quite a conscientous 
sense of duty that Harold, during the few hours of his stay in 
Cornwall, abstained from posting the letters delivered to him by the 
officer from the Atalanta, preferring in all kindness to take them 
with him to London, and thus spare the receivers their expensive 
postage. They nearly all bore London addresses ; and Harold 
thought it would not cost him much trouble to deliver some him- 
self, and intrust the others to the twopenny post, as that cheaper 
metropolitan branch was then named. 

Looking them over late on the evening of his arrival at his 
chambers, he was shocked to find, on untying the string which 
bound the bundle together, that one of them was addressed to 
Mrs. Armstrong. He could not imagine how he had overlooked 
this letter on first examining them ; and he stood now with it in 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


139 


bis hand, wondering if it would be possible to deliver it to her 
that night. A flush of painful vexation rose on his face as he 
reflected on the time lost and felt that he had acted wrongly in 
not at once forwarding by mail a letter so momentous. Perhaps 
it broke gently to her the tidings of the wreck of her husband’s 
ship, with the dire result of his death and loss of all the crew ; 
now in all likelihood the blow had fallen on her roughly in the 
words of some newspaper paragraph. 

Hot with a sort of angry grief at this thought, Harold thrust 
on his hat, caught up all the remaining letters, and ran into the 
street in search of a coach. 

“ Stop at the first post-office !” he cried to the driver of the 
lumbering machine into which he got hastily. 

“ I’ll not wait till to-morrow to deliver these !” he said to him- 
self, as he posted every letter except the one to Mrs. Armstrong, 
thus in the revulsion of his feeling gladly relieving himself of his 
postal responsibility. 

At Mrs. Armstrong’s, on asking for her, he was told that she 
was ill, stricken down by the dreadful news that had reached 
her. 

“ I have a letter for her,” said Harold, hesitating and sorrow- 
ful. “ Is there no one *1 can see to whom I can explain how it 
reached my hands?” 

Yes ; the servant thought he could see Miss Armstrong. 

So he entered and waited in the half-lighted dining-room, 
where a fire, just dying out, only added to the gloom which 
seemed to pervade the house. 

“ I hear you have a letter for my mother ?” said a young voice ; 
and. turning quickly, Harold saw a child-girl of apparently about 
thirteen, whose eyes and face were disfigured by weeping. 

Harold told his story rapidly, relating how the fact of his 
being kept ten days at sea had delayed the delivery of the letter. 
He spoke only of his meeting with the Atalanta^ naturally ab- 
staining from any mention of Captain Armstrong or his own 
chase of the Alert or subsequent search in the French ports for 
the man whom he imagined had been landed before the wrecking 
of his ship. 

The girl listened intently, and then begged him to wait till 
she had carried the letter to her mother, and could return to him 
with any message she might have to give him. 

Left alone, Harold sank into a chair by the fire, while his 


V 


140 PROM THE OTHER SIDE, 

thoughts naturally recurred to the terrible scene of the wreck of 
the Alert and the death of the man by whose hearth he was now 
sitting. Like a vision the whole scene rose before him, till the 
room seemed tilled with the surge of the sea, and Captain Arm- 
strong’s face rose from out its heaving darkness. 

‘‘ I wish I had not come to this house !” Harold said within 
himself. “ It was an otiicious, foolish, impulsive act ! Every- 
thing has gone WI^^ng with me since I left Salisbury ! I am out 
of tune. I want sleep, I suppose. Two nights on the top of a 
coach unstring a man’s nerves.” 

The door opened, a light flashed inwards, and Harold started, 
for Captain Armstrong’s face was indeed present, looking down 
on him from the wall. He gazed at the portrait for an instant 
with feelings of strange irritation. 

“Would to Heaven the man were alive !” he thought. “I 
would grapple with him this instant, and tear the secret of Tris- 
tram’s death from his throat.” 

“ My mother wishes earnestly to see you,” said Miss Armstrong. 
“ Will you kindly follow 

Her voice had broken in upon his reverie like the jar of a dis- 
cord, and again he felt that all his feelings were at war with the 
position in which he had placed himself. 

“ I trust Mrs. Armstrong will excuse me,” he said constrain- 
edly. “ As a stranger, I would rather not intrude on her.” 

“Oh, don’t call yourself a stranger ! ” cried the young girl, 
seizing his hand suddenly and pressing it against her lips. “ We 
know the truth now ; you nearly lost your life in striving to save 
my father’s ! ” 

Harold’s heart gave a great bound — it was full of repulsion 
and angry — and he flushed hotly at the thought of receiving 
thanks for his endeavour to save a man whom secretly he was 
hating and condemning for shielding an assassin. But the im- 
possibility of letting his feelings appear to the man’s wife and 
daughter, and the fear of seeming hard and ungracious to them 
in their great grief forced him to accept the situation silently. 

“ You will come to mamma ? ” continued the girl in her sweet 
entreating voice ; and Harold yielded to the prayer. 

In the glare of light in the hall, where he saw her face dis- 
tinctly, he could not help noting a great change in it from its first 
aspect of dead dull grief. Her eyes were now bright and shin- 




FRCM THE OTHER SIDE. 


141 


ing, her cheeks flushed — she seemed transfigured as by some 
electric touch of hope and life. 

Dimly wondering if gratitude to him could be the cause of this 
change, Harold followed her up the staircase to a room where a 
pale lady rose from an arm-chair to receive him. 

She caught both his hand in hers and held them tightly, but 
could not utter a word. Her lips moved, but only to quiver with 
unspoken pain ; anguish was written in every line of her deadly 
white face. Inexpressibly touched, Harold held her hands still 
when she would have relinquished his — otherwise she would have 
fallen — and, gently replacing her in her chair, he waited in sil- 
ence till she could speak. 

You have bound Mary and me to you for ever,'^ she said at 
last brokenly. “ It is not your fault that he is not alive himself 
to thank you. I know you nearly died to save him.” 

“ I desire no thanks,” returned Harold hurriedly. “ I would 
willingly have given half my life to save any one on board the 
Alert. I had reasons ” 

But here he stopped, for Mary Armstrong’s eyes met his, and 
the expression in them startled him not only into silence, but 
into the consciousness that she knew his thought. A burning 
colour covered her face as she withdrew her eyes, but not before 
tJiey had uttered a prayer to which he listened. 

“ She knows something of which her mother is ignorant,” he 
said to himself. “ Can it be the fact of Tristram’s death and the 
way in which he met it?” Ho ; that last is impossible, for the 
Alert was at sea from the hour he was slain till it went down in- 
to the deep with its secret untold.” 

“ Ah, do not search for reasons why I should not feel grate- 
ful ! ” said Mrs. Armstrong, as her voice grew firmer. “ It 
soothes me to think there was a good brave man willing to risk 
his life for a man as brave and as good as himself.” 

“ His only reason is that he hates thanks — like all men that 
do a worthy deed,” said Mary Armstrong abruptly. “ How, 
dear mother, tell Mr. Olver why you wished to see him.” 

For an instant Harold felt surprised at her knowledge of his 
name, then he remembered that he had given his card to the 
servant, and his mind dwelt only on the adroitness of her speech. 
She had turned the current of her mother’s thoughts and given 
a reason for his own words which drew her mind safely away 
from the truth which, in his haste, he had half uttered. 


142 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“My dear, you are right,” said Mrs. Armstrong to her daugh- 
ter ; “ Mr. Olver knows what I feel, and I will not trouble him 
with further words. In the hurried letter written to me on 
board the Atalanta^^ she continued, turning to Harold, “ I am 
told that many letters were entrusted to your care. One of them 
is addressed to a dear friend of mine — in fact, a cousin. Will 
you then let me look over them and take charge of that one ? I 
have urgent reasons for wishing to give him that letter myself 
and break the news to him which it contains. 

“I am truly sorry I cannot oblige you,’' Harold answered, 
with a vexed air. “ I no longer have the letters in my possession. 
I posted them all on my way hither.” 

“ Oh, what a pity ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Armstrong, clasping her 
hands together, as her face flushed painfully. “ Can "nothing be 
done now to get the letter back ? ” 

Harold did not reply to this unreasoning question ; it added 
another jar to his unstrung nerves ; he was out of sympathy with 
his situation, and every note struck was a discord. 

Of course I was wrong there too,” he said to himself, with 
exasperation. “ I should have let the letters wait. A day's 
delay could be of no consequence, with the loss of the Alert 
known all over the kingdom.” 

“ Nothing can be done, mother ; we must have patience and 
hope for the best.” Mary leaned over her mother’s chair in 
saying this, and spoke so low that her voice sank almost to a 
whisper. 

And now Harold rose to go, feeling a sudden accession to the 
strength of the discordance within him, and longing to escape 
from the voices and the hands that played so ill upon his nerves. 

“ I wish I could have obliged you,” he said hurriedly. “ I am 
sorry for my haste, since by soms means it increases your trouble. 
But I assure you, in posting the letters just now, my only feel- 
ing was regret for not having discharged that duty the moment 
1 landed in Cam wall.” 

Mrs. Armstrong gazed up at him with face grown very pale 
now that the flush was gone, and she took his outstretched hand 
with tears in her sad eyes and clasped it again tightly with both 
hers. 

“ You are right — quite right I All you have done is right and 
true and brave. I know you do not like thanks — I will not 
weary you with them ; but yours were the last eyes that looked 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


143 


on my husband’s living face, yours were the hands stretched out 
in deadly peril to yourself to save him. I cannot forget this — I 
can never forget it ! If ever in the time to come you should need 
a friend true as a mother, promise me that you will think of me 
and come to me.” 

“ I trust I will never trouble you with any grief of mine,” 
Harold answered ; “ but if ever a time should come in which I 
feel you can help me, I will not forget your wish.” 

While her small feverish hands were clinging to his and her 
grief-worn eyes were fixed appealingly on him, he could not have 
answered in any other way, yet his promise rubbed against the 
grain of his mind, and he turned away with soreness at his 
heart. 

“ You will be faithful to your word, I know,” said Mrs Arm- 
strong, as she relinquished his hands. ‘‘ I leave Londen to-mor- 
row ; but on my return I hope we shall meet again.” 

“ I hope not,” was the echo in Harold’s mind as he descended 
the stairs, not perceiving that Mary Armstrong had preceded 
him till he saw her standing at the door of the dining-room. 

She beckoned to him to enter, and then closed the door with a 
quick light hand. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“Mr. Olver, you are vexed with me — you are angry with us 
all, even with my poor dead father,” said Mary Armstrong, in 
accent that touched both his heart and conscience. 

“ I assure you,” he began hurriedly. 

“ Oh, do sit down and listen to me ! ” she interposed, leading 
him submissively to a seat. “ I know what you think ; you 
imagine that he is to blame for an accident in which he had no 
share, but which, as surely as we two are alive to speak of it, 
was the real cause of his own death.” 

“ I know you speak truly there,” returned Harold, in a pained 
voice, “lam aware that he perished in his attempt to save a 
guilty person from justice.” 

“No, no — not guilty !” she cried, with eager passion. “As 
innocent as you or I of that unhappy death I ” 


144 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Have you any reason for your words f ^ asked Harold ; and, 
unconsciously to himself, his tone grew hard. 

The girl shrank back at this, resting one hand on the table 
for support. 

“ Reasons ? Oh, a thousand ; but I cannot tell them to you ! 
They are in my heart and in my veins. You must know and 
feel all I know to understand them. One reason I can give you 
— my father was not the man to shield an assassin ; he was too 
honest, too brave to risk a duty, however painful. There is his 
face. looking down on us ; ” and she flung out her hand with sud- 
den energy towards his portrait. “ Look at it, and say if it is 
not the face of a true gentleman ! ” 

“ Doubtless a gentleman and a brave man,^’ returned Harold 
soothingly to the excited girl, “ but a mistaken one. And per- 
haps, Miss Armstrong, it is well for him and for me that the 
slayer of my friend is gone down into the depths of the sea, for, 
if he had escaped drowning, he should never have escaped my hand. 

I would have hunted him down if he took refuge in the uttermost 
parts of the earth. 

The moment he had spoken Harold felt sorry for his vehe- 
mence before a girl who- was a mere child, and her terror-stricken 
eyes as she gazed into his face haunted him for many a day after- 
wards in memory. 

“Pray excuse me !” he said, with eagerness. “I am wrong to 
trouble you with my indignation at such a time as this. But 
you cannot dream of all the dire consequences that have arisen 
for myself and others from my friend’s cruel death.” 

Mary Armstrong pressed her dry lips together, as if forcing 
them to cease quivering before she began to speak. 

“ I know he has a sister. I hope she will live long and be 
happy.” 

“ How can you know anything of Miss Carbonellis asked > 
Harold, almost fiercely. | 

“ I wanted to tell you that we had heard of her — I wanted to j 
tell you how we came to know that you nearly lost your life in j 
striving to rescue my father. Oh, we have heard all that you 
did ! I will not be angry with you though you are so angry I 
with me. My mother had a letter from an officer this morning ; j 
he told us all the story. He heard it from Daniel Pascoe.” 

“ And how came he to write to you V Harold asked in some 
amazement 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


145 


“ I will tell you. When the report reached us that the Alert 
was wrecked, we would not believe it. At the Admiralty nothing 
was known, so mother wrote to the Coastguard-station at Lan- 
garth, and the officer there replied that the report was too true, 
and he enclosed an account of the wreck related by a man who 
was an eye-witness of it. That man was Daniel Pascoe.” 

‘‘ It was wrong of Daniel to mention me,” observed Harold. 

“ Oh, no — he knew we should be thankful to him ! He fel<5 
we should like to hear all the details, even though they wrung 
our hearts ; and, above everything, it was fair and right, the 
officer said, that we should hear of your gallant deed.” 

Harold for a moment kept a vexed silence, while his gaze 
rested curiously on the slight girl whose demeanor showed so 
strange a mixture of timidity and determination. 

“ You can understand now,” she continued, “ why my mother 
wished to see you on knowing your name. And she was anxious 
to ask about the letters too,” she added, with a quick breath. 

“Why have you troubled yourself to explain all this T asked 
Harold. “ I shall hear it later from Daniel, when no doubt he 
will apologise to me for his officiousness.” 

“ How you are angry with me too I Oh, what can I do to 
make you sorry for us — to make you hate us a little less ? ” cried 
this strange girl, her large grey eyes dilating as with fear, and 
her white face flushing a pale pink. 

“ Miss Armstrong,” exclaimed Harold, “ you really have no 
right to suppose me so full of ill-feeling towards you ! ” 

“Ho,” she answered pitifully. “Oh, Mr. Olver, I am so afraid 
of your hatred ! ” 

“ You have nothing to fear from it, even if it existed,” said 
Harold, half smiling. “ I am not likely to make myself a formid- 
able enemy to you, Miss Armstrong ; ” and he looked at the pale, 
delicate, slight child, with her big imploring eyes, much with the 
some look he might have for a butterfly or a small bird in his 
grasp. 

“ Oh, but I want you so much to like me, and to be sorry for 
my mother ; and I can feel you dislike us ! ” she said, clasping 
her hands in piteous entreaty. 

“Well, and if I did,” said Harold, smiling outright now, 
“surely it would not hurt you very much ? ” 

^ Hot hurt me ? Why, it might kill me 1 ” said the girl 


146 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


earnestly. “ If you hated me, you would not mind doing things J 
that kill one.^^ j 

“ Take my assurance, then, that I don’t hate you ; and I should : 
as soon th’nk of harming a fly as of hurting a child like you.” ' 
“ But I am not a child,’' she said, with a sudden vivid blush ; \\ 
“ I am nearly seventeen.” 1; 

Harold looked at her in surprise. Nearly seventeen, that j! 
small frail creature, who in his eyes scarcely seemed more than ^ 
twelve ! He could not believe her, and he smiled into her great i 
gray eyes incredulously. j 

‘‘You are a very young seventeen,” he said. “Neverthless I 
will take your word for the fact, and hope you will take mine I 
that I mean you no harm in the world. Are you satisfied ?” | 

“ No, not quite,” she said, drawing back from his outstretched I 
hand. “ I wish you would say you like me, and will think of j 
me sometimes when you are far away, and say to yourself,, ‘ I j 
won’t do this,’ or ‘ I can’t do that,’ ‘ because it would kill that | 
poor little Mary Armstrong.’ ” | 

“ I could not possibly say all that,” returned Harold gravely, I 
“ unless you set upon my knee while I was making my little 
speech. ” ' 

She looked up at him with the strangest light in her great 
pathetic eyes. Was it reproach, was it the sheen of tears, or was 
it mere childishness that he saw in them ? At all events she 
came towards him, where he sat in an arm-chair by the dead fire, 
and, with simplest bravest frankness, put her small thin hand in 
his. 

“ I will sit upon your knee,” she said, “ if you will like me 
better for it, and if you will say those words and remember them 
when the sea rolls between us, when the memory of them will 
keep you from doing some cruel thing that would hurt me.” 

*‘ So you will persist in thinking I am an ogre ! ” returned 
Harold, in an amused tone. “ Hurt you, child ? It would be 
impossible ; no man could hurt you. Why, the shadow of a 
blow would crush you, a cruel word would break you down ! ” 
He said this as he put one arm around her and set her upon 
his knee. He still held her hand ; it felt like a tiny soft bird 
in his grasp — a bird with a trembling heart, palpitating in every 
vein. 

“ I am glad to hear you say that ; think so always, then I shall 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


147 


be safe. Now do you like me better ? And will you promise me 
all I asked ? 

She said this in an eager childish way and with her eyes so 
fixed on his that fOr a moment they held Harold's as by chains of 
vivid light. 

“ Not yet/' he said. “ I think you ought to give me a kiss 
first." 

She took this suggestion as a child of six years old would, with 
the utmost calm gravity. 

“I would rather not, thank you,” she said; “but, if you insist 

— if you will not give me your promise without it ” And, 

heaving a little sigh, she looked at him with such a piteous ex- 
pression on her small white face that Harold could not forbear 
smiling. 

“ I wdll excuse you the kiss,” he answered ; “ and I promise 
you that, if seas and mountains and all the dreary plains of the 
earth stretch between us, I will still remember little Mary Arm- 
strong, and never put even the shadow of my finger to any act or 
deed that could do her harm.” 

A gleam of intense happiness shot into the big gray eyes, still 
so entreatingly holding his in their gaze, and all her face grew 
glorified with joy. 

“ I am content now, and I will never be afraid of you any 
more,” she said, putting her small soft arm around his neck with 
the unconscious confidence of a bird. 

“ So you confess you have been afraid of me, and the hatred 
was on your side, not mine ? ” 

“No, no, not hatred,” she cried eagerly; “and you must not 
think it was dislike that made me refuse to kiss you, for I like 
you very much — I do indeed.” 

“ Then what was it ? ” asked Harold ; and involuntarily his 
arm pressed her more tightly, and, bending forward his face 
touched hers. 

She drew back instantly with a surprised look in her eyes, but 
there was no blush on her cheek or quaver in her voice. 

“ It was because' I promised before the JIart sailed that I 
would not kiss any man.” 

“Your father was very wise to make you give such a proxo-^q 0 . 
but sitting on a man's knee is worse than kissing,” said Harold, 
with assumed gravity. 

“ Is it 1” she asked anxiously. “ Then let me go please, will 


148 


FROM THE OTHER SLDK. 


you — and, starting up, stie moved to a little distance timidly, 
as if deprecating his anger. 

“ Now you are disliking me,” said Harold, detaining her with 
one hand. 

“ No, no ; I have said the truth. I like you very much, and 
I can understand that the lady you love must love you very 
dearly.” 

The lady I love !” — and the laughter in Harold’s eyes chang- 
ed to pure amazement. “ That’s Daniel’s officiousness again, I 
presume. I perceived by what you said to me respecting the 
accident — so called — on board the Alert that he had mentioned 
the sad death of my friend, but I did not suppose ” 

“ Oh, don’t be angry ! He meant no harm,” interposed Mary 
Armstrong, with that intensity again in her voice which made it 
so pathetic. “ And we are so thankful to him ; but for him we 
should have known nothing of what you had done 

“ Did he mention, too, why I hired his boat, and why I was at 
sea ?’ asked Harold, resuming somewhat of his old hard tone to- 
wards her. 

Her face flushed now, and her lips trembled. 

I thought you would not be unkind again,” she said piteous- 
ly. “ You were so good to me only a minute ago !” 

“ I am really not unkind ; but I should like an answer to my 
question,” said Harold. 

“ And you won’t hate me if I say ‘ Yes’ ?” she answered, clasp- 
ing both her hands together. 

“ Certainly not. How can you help what Daniel Pascoe chose 
to say ?” 

‘‘ Then yes ; he said you went in pursuit of my father’s ship.” 

“ And did he tell for what purpose I” 

“Yes.” Her voice was so faint and low that he scarcely 
caught the word, but he saw that she was deadly pale, and her 
eyes, dilated with terror, looked past him, as if beholding some 
appalling sight. 

“ There is nothing here to alarm you,” ho said soothingly. 
“ And I am sorry Daniel has given a history which can only 
distress you.” 

til have not told my mother. I am bearing it all myself,” she 
said, letting her clasped hands fall with a shiver. 

“ By yourself !” exclaimed Harold pityfully. “ Then this is 
the meaning of your imploring look when I was about to speak 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


149 


to your mother of my reason for willingly risking my life to save 
any man from the Alert 

“ Yes ; I thought you understood that ; and my mother must 
never know anything of this story.” 

‘‘ I shall not tell her,” said Harold. “ But perhaps she saw 
an account of the inquest in the papers, if Cornish events travel 
so far.” 

“ I kept the paper from her. The Alert was mentioned in it, 
you know, with the rumour that she was lost.” 

Harold glanced at the girl with a renewed curiosity ; the mix- 
ture of womanhood and childhood in her perplexed him — at one 
moment sitting on his knee like a mere baby, at another showing 
him that she had foresight and caution beyond the powers of 
many women. 

“Bat it was not for that only that I burnt the papers and 
and have erased so much of the officer’s letter,” she continued. 
“ It was to spare mother worse grief ; she would think it so 
wicked to — to kill your friend I mean.” 

“ And was it not wicked V asked Harold in amazement. 

“ No,” she said determinedly. “ An act that could not be 
helped is not wicked. You are stronger than I am, and, if you 
were to force me to do something that I hated and abhorred, it 
would be cruel to call me wicked for it.” 

“ Perhaps it would ; but I cannot imagine such a thing happen- 
ing. And an accident — if it was an accident that took my 
friend’s life — would not occur in that shape.” 

She was silent, but beneath the pale sliell-like clearness of her 
skin the blood mantled feverishly, and her eyes filled suddenly 
with tears. 

“ But it was no accident,” continued Harold, breaking into 
vehemence again ; “ and it is well for the man who fired that 
cruel shot that he is drowned, for, if he lived ” 

“Would you kill him?” she exclaimed. 

“We don’t kill criminals,” said Harold. “We hand them 
over to justice.” 

“ Which kills more slowly and cruelly,” said the girl, in a 
bitter tone. “Oh, Mr. Olver, I wish you had more merciful 
thoughts ! Surely to believe what my father told you would be 
a happier feeling !” 

“Not for me,” interrupted Harold impatiently. “To believe 
in such accidents would destroy every hope of happiness that I 


150 


FBOM THE OTHER SID& 


possess. There, there, child,” he added quickly, as if pitying the 
; grief and whiteness of her looks — “ I cannot explain to you 
what I mean. It is a matter of feeling, not of reason or of argu- 
ment.” 

“ I understand you,” she said slowly ; “ and my belief, if true, 
destroys you, and your belief, if proved, would kill me. Oh, we 
, must be enemies — ^^we must hate each other — you will not keep 
your promise !” 

“ My dear child, I assure you I will keep it,” said Harold 
soothingly, as with gently force he took down her hands from 
the small white face they covered. “ And I make you a new 
promise — if ever you and I should come into antagonism through 
this strange affair, then I will respect your father’s memory. I 
will not throw a shadow over his name. Now are you com- 
forted 

“ A little ; but I like your first promise best — that, happen 
what may, you will remember little Mary Armstrong and never 
do her harm.” 

“ Then take my first promise again,” said Harold, holding her 
within the ring of his arm, and feeling the beating of a great 
child-heart against his side. 

“ Write it down for me,” she pleaded; “and I will put the 
slip of paper into my locket with my father’s portrait and wear 
it always.” 

“ You are a strange child,” said Harold. “ I think when you 
grow up you will be a dangerous little woman. You will get 
your own way with any man.” 

She saw that this meant yielding ; so in a moment pen, ink, 

, and paper were before him, and his own words were dictated to 
him in a soft sweet voice, and with a clear memory that surprised 
and amused him. 

She blotted the paper, deliberately folded and placed it in her 
locket, and then held out both her hands to Harold. 

“ Let us say good-bye while we are friends. If it were not 
^ for my promise, I would kiss you a good-bye — I would indeed ; 
but will you take this instead, and as a remembrance of me ? ” 
— it was the pen with which he had written, a gold one, prettily 
; embellished with turquois ; and, closing it, she placed it in his 
' hand. 

“ I cannot take this,” said Harold hesitatingly. 

“ It is my own, I assure you, and I have a perfect right to 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


161 


give it away. If I kept it, I should never use it again ; it is 
sacred — it is dedicated to you.” 

“Then it may as well be mine outright,” returned Hai’old 
gaily ; “ and I will take great care of it for your sake. Good-bye, 
little Mary 1 ” 

He held both her tiny hands in one of his, and looked at her 
with odd feelings stirring in his veins. She was such a queer 
mixture of child and woman that his thoughts of her were con- 
tinually on the swing, and as they swayed so he treated her. At 
that moment he had a quick desire to treat her as a little child — 
catch her up in his arms to the level of his lips, kiss her, and set 
her down again. But, as his eyes fell upon the small wistful 
white face upturned to his in such calm gravity, the desire fled 
with something of the darkness and swiftness of a bat in it, and, 
relinquishing her hands with an earnest pressure, he said one 
more good-bye and hurried away. 

As he flung himself into the lumbering coach that he had kept 
waiting so long, he was conscious that his irritated feelings had 
been soothed away, and all the antagonism which had heated his 
veins as he entered the house which he was now leaving was 
calmed into peace. 

“ Well, she is a queer little thing,” he observed to himself ; 
“ and — and I don’t think I shall tell Estrild anything about 
her.” 

Then he gave Mr. Yicat’s address to the coachman, and the 
old vehicle which he drove lumbered on through the dim streets 
till it reached that gentleman’s door. 

Harold looked at the house with an angry eye. The whole 
front was dark from attic to basement. 

“ Knock loudly !” he called to the coachman. 

The fumbling old man obeyed ; and, after many loud raps 
had waked up the echoes and brought a watchman out of his box, 
a sleepy servant came to the door. 

“ Master is gone to the play,” she said sulkily, as if anxious at 
once to get rid of such untimely visitors. 

“ I must apologise for calling so late,” said Harold ; “but I 
have come only to inquire for Miss Carbonellis. And will you 
kindly give her this note ?” 

“ She ain’t here,” said the sleepy servant sharply. 

“ Not here 1” exclaimed Harold, with consternation in his 


152 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


voice. “ Then will you ask Mrs. Yicat if she will kindly see me 
for a moment?^’ 

“ She ain't here neither,” returned the aggrieved servant ; and, 
saying this as if she felt herself insulted in being called up so 
rashly from her slumbers, she endeavored to close the door. 

“ Stay a moment !” exclaimed Harold, speaking to the palm of 
her hand with that universal language — coin. “ Can you tell me 
where Mrs. Vicat is 

“ Yes ; she is down at Salisbury with the young lady you h'ast 
for, who was took ill there.” 

Bang went the door, and Harold stood before the blank silent 
house with feelings within him that would have knocked it into 
dust could they only have expressed themselves in lightning. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

“ My dear lady, this relapse is a sad affair,” said the Doctor, in 
grave tones. “ Can you explain the cause of it ? ” 

“ Well, yes. Doctor. You see there was a gentleman on the 
top of the coach who — who ” 

“Was her friend or her lover perhaps,” interpolated the Doc- 
tor, who had long discovered that Mrs. Vicat's slow mind ever 
needed a little prompting. 

“ Yes — but not a suitable person, Mr. Yicat says ; and I am 
bound of course to obey his wishes.” 

“ Well, well — and what happened ? ” asked the Doctor im- 
patiently. 

“ Oh, nothing ! The gentleman went away on the coach after 
he had eaten his dinner.” 

“ He must be a strange kind of lover I Then he stayed 
scarcely a minute with her ? ” 

“ He never saw her, Doctor. Mr. Yicat had ordered me not 
to let them meet.” 

“ But I ordered you not to permit her to be troubled,” resum- 
ed the Doctor; “and mine were the orders you were bound to 
obey. I won't answer for the consequences of this renewed 
agitation.” 

Much frightened, Mrs, Yicat burst into teara 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


153 


“ I’ll send for Mr. Yicat ; I’ll write to him directly,” she 
said. 

‘‘You had better write for the gentleman who was on the 
coach, and desire him to come,” said the Doctor. “ His presence 
will do her more good than Mr. Vicat’s.” 

“ I don’t know where he lives,’’ said Mrs. Vicat helplessly ; 
“ and, if I did, I couldn’t dare write to him. Mr. Vicat would 
lead me such a life ! Oh, dear, why didn’t Estrild speak to that 
young man herself if she wanted to ? I am sure I didn’t pre- 
vent her ; and it’s cruel to put the blame of all this on me ! ” 

This incoherent speech led to further explanations, and the 
Doctor now discovered that it was Estrild herself who had 
allowed ^er lover to depart in ignorance of her presence. 

“ It was very good of her,” resumed Mrs. Vicat, still sobbing. 
“ It isn’t often anybody gives up a pleasure to save me from 
trouble ; it is a thing that never happens at home.” 

“ And it did not happen here ? ” thought the Doctor, as, rising 
he said he would go and see his patient again. 

What words passed between him and Estrild he did not repeat 
to Mrs Vicat, but he posted a letter on his way home, addressed 
to Harold Olver. 

“ I wish I could send him a message instead on the lightning 
or the wind,” he said to himself, little dreaming then of the 
miracles the new century held. 

We who live in these times cannot guess how many hearts 
were broken, how many eyes were closed in death, ere the slow- 
coming message or the beilated traveller could arrive to heal the 
sick heart or to strengthen the breaking thread of life. 

“ He’ll get the letter to-morrow,” said the Doctor. “ And — 
let me see — there’s a coach starts at five in the morning the next 
day. Yes ; he’ll come by that, and he’ll be here in the evening.” 

But the days passed, and there was no Harold, and no reply 
to the Doctor’s letter. 

“ This lover must be a poor half-hearted fellow,” said that 
gentleman to himself, “ I am glad 1 did not tell the girl I had 
written to him. Now she must get well without him ; he is not 
worth the grief she is wasting on him. Well, there is one com- 
fort — Saul has got his music and his David, and so that queer 
patient of mine is doing me credit, although the recovery has no 
more to do with me and with medicine than the moon has with 
mad dogs 1 ” 


154 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Yes, it was true — there was music in the hotel, and music of 
the best order. There was a harp played divinely, and a voice 
blending with it soothing and full as the murmur of the sea in 
summer. 

Estrild often sat her door a little open to listen to it, and 
felt the influence of its exquisite melody sink into her very heart, 
lulling its hot cares to rest. Often too she found herself waiting 
and watching for the sweet sounds ; and she would lie back on 
her sofa with a sigh of satisfaction when they fell upon her long 
ing ear like the healing touch of an angehs winsf. 

She was too ill, too weak to ask who the musician was ; but 
Mrs. Vicat was curious, and questioned the landlady, eliciting 
only the fact that it was a friend of the invalid gentleman who 
played so well. And she was glad that some one had come to 
look after him, as at one time she had thought that he would 
die, and his corpse would be left on her hands to bury. And 
she did not know his name or where he came from, or who he 
was from Adam. 

Sometimes on the staircase Mrs. Vicat met a small thin girl 
with pale face and gray prominent eyes, and hair so light that it 
might be called flaxen, but not golden, falling about her should- 
ers wildly, giving her an uncanny look ; but it never struck her 
that this could be the musician ; and yet it was so. From the 
touch of those small slight fingers sprang the music which soothed 
vexed spirits into peace. 

At length one morning, instead of the sweet hymn which had 
risen daily to Heaven as a prayer for pardon and love, there 
was a blank silence — an emptiness in the air which made it cold 
and dull. 

Estrild missed the music, and asked eagerly why it had 
ceased. 

“ Did you care for it V demanded the Doctor, to whom she 
had put the question. 

“ Yes it has cured my sick fancies. A little while ago I was 
longing to die, as you know, but now I wish to live.” 

“My dear, young folk are very much in love with Death — old 
folk hate him. You are full of life and of all its possibilities of 
happiness ; and when, in old age, these shall cease you will still 
find something to live for — something for which Death must be 
fought off to the last.” 

“ That’s a melancholy picture of old age, Doctor and Estrild 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


15§ 


smiled at it, as the young will when age is so far from them ; 
then, with a sigh, she added, I might tell you there is no possi- 
bility of happiness in my life but I will not say sa When that 
lovely music breathes around me, going up to Heaven in prayer 
or praise, I feel that joy and hope and peace do not depend only 
on gaining the earthly happiness we long for. If we lose it, 

there are still consolations and duties ” But her voice broke 

and her eyes filled suddenly with tears, which she dashed away 
hastily, saying, “You see I have need of David's harp at this 
very moment. When it ceases to sound, up rises my old spirit 
of discontent to tear and wound me. Set the door a little 
wider open. Doctor, and I shall hear it soon.” 

“No, my dear, you will not hear it any more. Saul and 
David have both gone.” 

“Gone !” exclaimed Estrild. “But I have heard no carriage 
depart this morning.” 

“ That is because they left in the night — they all preferred it. 
Saul is a man who hates to be gazed at ; the thought of a gaping 
crowd fills him with horrors. I believe he would live under- 
ground if he could.” 

“ Then is he half mad 1” asked Estrild shrinkingly. 

“ My dear, that is a wider question than you can dream of. 
He is not madder than you or I, but he has a different sort of 
madness from yours and mine — that's all.” 

“But I will not allow of any madness in myself,” said Estrild. 

“ Ah, are you quite sure that you do not cherish any deeply- 
planted illusion or passion which is a root of bitterness to you ? 
Come now — a something which threatens happiness with both 
hands, and yet which you will not let go 

Estrild was silent, but a flush spread over her cheeks, bright- 
ening them with a feverish rose. The Doctor saw that he had 
touched the wound ; but he would not probe it, for his mind was 
set on a distant lover, who was careless, or faithless, or both ; 
and time, he knew, was the only healer for such a grief, 

“ Now these people have interested me very much,” he said 
cheerily ; “and I have built up one of my pet thoeries on them. 
In my opinion each individual holds another and secret self 
within him ; and sometimes that other self is a dangerous crea- 
ture who has to be held down, and sometimes it is a shrinking and 
timid creature who hides and vanishes into the dirau^est rocesses 


156 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


before the glance of a human eye. And this last kind does more 
evil than the first. 

“ Yes ? ” Estrild said. 

“ Yes ; it is too much like a snake, you see, which glides off at 
the sound of a step, but which is not the less deadly because a 
coward. 

“ Dear me, Doctor Arnold, what horrible notions you have ! ” 
broke in Mrs. Vicat, who had been industriously reading a curt 
and dictatorial letter from her husband. “ The idea of thinking 
that poor unhappy gentleman and his friend to be snakes is quite 
dreadful.^’ 

“ Wait till I say so, and Til grant it dreadful,’^ resumed the 
Doctor. “ There are many kinds of dualties besides those 1 hav« 
named, and one among them is rare and peculiar. It is sensitive 
to occult influences, it hears voices we cannot hear, it sees visions 
invisible to coarser sense, and through these it can be acted on in 
a way past our small understanding. Now Saul, as I call him, 
has this rare temperament which stands on the border-land, and 
his second or dual self deals at times with things past human 
ken. Yet he is not mad — don’t think so — but there are periods 
in his life when he has sore need of a David.” 

“ And he has just gone through such a time ? ” said Estrild. 

“Yes. When I was called in to see him, he was completely 
exhausted as by some great struggle, like a man who has fought 
through a stormy sea for his life. At length, when he had re- 
covered strength a little, he told me that he had been called 
away from his home by the voice of his only son, declaring that 
he was in deadly peril And he was on his way to Southampton, 
where he expected to meet his son’s ship, when news reached 
him here that she had gone down with the loss of all hands.’' 

“ Was the ship the Alert cried Estrild. 

^ Yes. Why do you ask ? ” 

“ Oh, I have been longing to ask this question ever since 1 
heard that his son was drowned, but somehow I have been afraid, 
and the words have hung back on my lips ! ” 

“ But why, my dear young lady ? 

“ I had not courage ; ” and Estrild clasped her hands tightly 
together. “ It was on board that doomed ship that my brother 
lost his life. He was shot. Captain Armstrong — oh, the cruel, 
cruel man ! — sent him home to me dead.” 

Doctor Arnold waa not sorry to hear Estrild at last men- 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


157 


tion her brother ; he knew it was best for grief to find speech and 
tears. 

“ Give sorrow words ; the grief that does not speak 
Whispers the o’erfraught heart, and bids it break.** 

The secret cause of her silence, which lay in the gloomy history 
of her family and in the fear which was the canker now lying at 
the root of her happiness, he could not guess at. 

.“You should not blame Captain Armstrong,*^ he said sooth- 
ingly, “ for an accident he could not help.” 

“ Now will you believe it asked Mrs. Yicat, with unwonted 
warmth — “ she positively hates to hear it was an accident ; she 
likes to think her brother was murdered.” 

“ That would be a strange thought 1 A little unreasonable, is 
it not, and not compatible with the facts 1” 

“No facts have come to light that contradict it. The Alert 
has carried her secret with her down to the depths. We only 
know that Captain Armstrong put to sea rather than face an in- 
quiry — rather than give up his friend,” Estrijd answered bitter- 
ly, her voice touched with a slight tremble rising from the black 
wave of thought within her. 

“ Then you know what Shakespere says — ' Beat not the bones 
of the dead.* Let the poor men rest whom the sea devoured. 
You must try to think better things of Captain Armstrong than 
to believe him an accomplice in an evil deed. If you had seen 
the grief of his wife and daughter, you would feel sure that only 
a good man could be so loved.** 

“ And was not Tristram beloved cried Estrild passionately. 
“ My grief is as great as theirs,” she added jealously, “ and with 
deeper cause.** 

“ My dear young lady, I did not mean to wound you. I 
thought you would sympathise with their sorrow. I thought too 
you were a little grateful to Miss Armstrong for her music.** 

“ To Miss Armstrong V Estrild exclaimed, as her face flushed 
painfully. 

“ Yes ; she was the David who came to the succour of my 
Saul.” 

“ Dear mo **’ said Mrs. Vicat. “ So those two ladies were Mrs. 
and Miss Armstrong. And the landlady would not tell me their 
names, neither would the servants,*' 


158 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ They had orders to he silent. The fact is, Mrs. and Miss 
Armstrong feared Miss Carbonellis was not well enough to bear 
the mention of their names.'' 

So they knew mine V said Estrild, in an accent which show- 
ed she felt it as a "wrong. 

“ They knew yours through me ; and they asked for you con- 
tinually. I never saw people so interested in a stranger as they 
were in you. In all your grief remember they had a full share ; 
and Miss Armstrong played as much for you as for SauL She 
used to ask me what music you liked best, and she was careful to 
place her harp near her open door, that you might hear it.” 

Tears rose in Estrild's eyes. There was something in all this 
that touched her to the heart, and yet, like the bitter drug that 
heals, it was a hard cup to drink. 

“ So I am indebted to Miss Armstrong,” she said — and her lip 
quivered — “ for a pleasure ” 

“ Say a medicine that has soothed and healed,” interposed the 
Doctor, “ and given by a hand that refused to be known. She 
made me promise on no account to tell you her name till she was 
gone.” ^ 

Estrild was silent, but tears were in her eyes again. 

“ What an odd girl,” observed Mrs. Vicat ; “ and she is very 
odd to look at too ! ” 

“ She is a dear little David,” said Doctor Arnold — “ a rare 
combination of genius, simplicity, and shrewdness. She placed 
herself in sympathy with every human being she meets. Upon 
my word, I believe she could soothe Satan himself and quench 
his burning spirit with tears of pity.” 

“ Don' frighten me ! ” said Mrs. Vicat. “ I hate such notions 
as that. I can't bare any talk about Satan — it puts me so much 
in mind of Mr. Vicat.” 

With this compliment to her husband, she "went on knitting 
placidly. The Doctor regarded her with a half-smile, saying 
quietly — 

“ One feels likenesses at times which are not visible to the eye. 
In fact, all the world is akin. There is a shadowy passing re- 
semblance now and then in Miss Carbonellis to Saul, and I am 
like a hundred people whom I jostle, stare at, and never see 
again.” 

And what is Saul's real name ? ” asked Mrs. Vicat. “ The 
man has been as mysterious and close as a mummy ever since he 


FROM THE OTHE^ SIDE. 


169 


came here. No one seems to kn-^ who he is or where he came 
from. When I asked the landlady, she knew nothing ; when I 
asked the landlord, he grew scared, and hurried off, like the 
shadow of a wisp of straw. 

“ When I first attended Saul,” said the Doctor, “ he was too 
ill to tell his name ; and he had no letters with him — no clue 
by which I could discover it, and let his friends know of his 
condition ; so I had an anxious time. At length, when the 
delirium of his fever had passed and I could question him, I 
elicited the fact I have told you — that he was on^ his way to 
Southampton to see his soru in obedience to an imaginary voice ; 
and, being met here by the news of his death, ho was seized with 
fever, and wandered he knew not whither. Dnring this time, 
he declared, a strange event occurred ; he met a man who put a 
packet of guineas in his hand, find told him to lay them on a 
table in this hotel. He assured me that the man led him to this 
inn, saw his behest fulfilled, find then vanished, Now the 

strange part of the story is '-Miss Carbonellis, you are feeling 

faint ? ” 

“No, no, not at all ! Go on. Doctor Arnold, I entreat you. 
I must hear the rest of this history ” 

“ Not if you look so pale over it I shall give you your bark 
and port-wine before I say another wo»’d. 

This was done, Estrild swallowing the bitter mixture with a 
feverish impatience which she did her bi^st to conceal. 

“Now, Doctor Arnold,” she said, “ J am flourishing like a bay- 
tree, so don’t keep my curiosity on the stretch.” 

“Well, I was about to say that this story, which I took for 
absolute delirium, proved to be true in so far as the guineas 
were concerned. The landlord assured me that he found the 
packet on the table. No one had seen it placed there ; and 
the money was really owing for the hire of a horse which had 
been taken from its stall secretly by some unknown indi- 
vidual, and nearly ridden to death. This accounts for the 
man’s scared looks, Mrs, Vicat; for nothing can shake his 
belief in the whole affair being of a ghostly order, and he 
can’t bear to be questioned on it. Saul, on tW contrary, an- 
swered every interrogation I put to him ; but h«f never wavered 
from the original story — only I saw that his horror of the figure 
or man whom he obeyed was so great that I thought it wise to 
drop the subject. Then, too, his grief for his son was dreadful ^ 


160 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


it was an agony which 1 verily believe would have killed him 
but for the arrival of his friends. It was when I thought he 
was dying that I at last asked him, as a duty, to give me an 
address to which I could send word of his state. Then it was 
that he named Mrs. Armstrong ; and I wrote to her at once. 
And, in spite of her own mental distress, she responded to my 
letter by coming here. That was good of her, you must confess, 
for she was ill and weak herself through her great sorrow.” 

“No doubt it was good of her,” said Estrild grudgingly; “but 
perhaps the gentleman is her brother.” 

“Oh, no — only quite a distant connection, she told me !” 

“ Well, but why don’t you give us the man’s name ?” persisted 
Mrs. Vicat. “ He is still as nameless as a mummy to me, and 
just as shrouded up, for I never once caught a glimpse of him.” 

“ Oh, his name is as uncommon as his nature !” said the Doctor, 
laughing. “ He is called Irien — Andrew Irien. He gave me 
his name when I wrote to Mrs. Armstrong. He had made up 
his mind then to die ; and he said she woUld know what to do at 
his death, and her daughter was his heiress now his son was 
gone.” 

“ Poor man, it is hard for him to have to give his wealth, if 
he is rich, to that queer little girl,” remarked Mrs. Vicat. 

“ Queer little girl,” repeated Doctor Arnold. “ Why, she 
deserves all his money, even if he is a Croesus, for she saved his 
life ! He rallied wonderfully from the day of her arrival. I 
saw the light of hope and life in his eyes the instant that I 
looked at him after, their first interiew. And then her music 
completed his cure. She played indeed like David before Saul.” 

“ Well, I don’t admire her as much as you do,” observed Mrs. 
Vicat, clicking her knitting-needles together snappishly. “ Es- 
trild, you are looking like your own ghost ; we have talked too 
much.” 

At the strong hint the chatty Doctor rose to leave, but Estrild, 
when she took his hand, detained him. 

“I want to ask you,” she said, hesitating, and then by an effort 
speaking calmly, “ if — if this strange patient of yours described 
to you the man or ghost whom he asserted he saw, who gave him 
the packet of money ?” 

“ Now that is the very question little Mary Armstrong pester- 
ed me with so often,” cried Doctor Arnold ; “ and I was obliged 
to answer her as I must you, with a negative. He gave me no 


PEOM THE OTHER SIDE. 


161 


description of the man beyond saying that he seemed weary and 
worn, like a man spent wi^i long riding/' 

“ That is answer enough for me,’' said Estrild, holding herself 
bravely, though her heart was beating like the tolling of a bell. 

“Well, I wish I could tell you more; but the Armstrongs beg- 
ged me not to mention the matter again to Saul, and I never did. 
He evidently had a great horror of the subject. He would not 
talk of his son either. And I understood from Mrs. Armstrong 
that this was because there had been a quarrel between them, 
and it was greatly his fault that the lad had gone to sea — in fact, 
he had run away from home, so there was remorse, you perceive, 
in the father’s grief.” 

“ And Saul, as you call him, is gone home now, I suppose T 
observed Mrs. Yicat, whose curiosity had been greatly stirred by 
these fellow-guests of hers at the inn. 

“ I really cannot say. I rather think they are all gone to Lon- 
don.” 

“ Do you know where Mr. Irien’s house is ?” asked Estrild. 

“Let me see,” said the Doctor, reflecting — “I think it is in 
Cumberland. Yes ; and his place is called Trame.” 

“ Oh, then he is not quite so mysterious as I imagined ! ” re- 
marked Mrs. Yicat, who, when away from her husband, liked to 
indulge herself with the sound of her own voice. “ Really I be- 
lieve that witch-like girl is the deeper mystery of the two.” 

“ If a witch, then a lovely and beneficent white witch,” return- 
ed the Doctor gallantly. 

“ Will you kindly give me Mrs. Armstrong’s address in Lon- 
don T said Estrild. 

“ Oh, certainly !” he answered ; and, taking one of his own 
cards from their case, he wrote it rapidly on the back. “ I am 
sure they will be pleased if you call on them. Your name had 
an attraction for them ; and they were full of gratitude towards 
some friend of yours who had bravely risked his life in a vain but 
noble attempt to rescue Captain Armstrong.” 

“Were theyl” — and Estrild spoke drily. “ I wonder how 
they heard of that.” 

“ Oh, I can’t say ! Well, good-bye ; I have stayed much too 
long. That comes of my foolish liking for Saul and David ; when 
I begin talking of them, I loose all sense of time.” 

“Saul and David !” repeated Mrs. Yicat, with angry emphasis, 
as the door closed on him. “ A half-crazy man and a chit of a 
K 


162 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


child ! It’s my belief his mind is full of that girl ; and it’s my 
belief too that she flirts with any creature that doesn’t wear petti- 
coats.” 

“ Aunt, have you time to write a letter before the mail 
leaves ? ” 

“Yes, my dear, if it is a short one.” 

“ Then write to Mr. Yicat and tell him that T am well enough 
to travel, and that we shall both be in London on the day -after 
to-morrow.” 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

Harold drove back to his room with thoughts like tempest- 
tost and rolling clouds — now showing a gleam of light, now 
covering all things in darkness. At length, through the fierce 
rage and vexation of his mind, there broke the resolve to travel 
down to Salisbury by the first coach that started in the morning. 
This determination somewhat calmed him, though his heart still 
beat hotly at the remembrance that he had been close to Estrild 
and had not seen her ; and he still raged against himself for 
having quitted Salisbury in blindness, and in resistance to the 
feeling which urged him to stay. 

“ If Estrild hears that I was on the coach, what will she say ? 
Will she think I was aware of her presence, and yet would not 
see her out of sheer cowardice, because I cannot relieve her dis- 
tracted mind from a single fear ? Xo ; surely, warped though all 
her thoughts are in that one gloomy direction, she will not do 
me such an injustica And in a few hours I thall see her, and 
set all things right.” 

This was his thought, as, impatiently fumbling with his key 
at the door, he at length opened it, and found the passage in 
black darkness, and filled with the smoke of an oil-lamp which 
had declined to burn. 

Language even of the strongest kind being useless to produce 
a light, Harold groped his way to the staircase, knowing that 
he should find one in his own room. But he had scarcely as- 
cended three steps ere he first stumbled and then fell over some re- 
clining body which appeared to be taking its ease in a profound 
slumber. The rough treatment however of being walked over 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


163 


roused the sleeper, so that he started up, and Harold recovered 
from his fall at the same moment. 

“ Confound the dog ! Go down, Lion!” cried Harold, in a 
sharp voice. 

A chuckle of laughter was the answer ; and, since quadrupeds, 
though they sometimes cry, have never been known to laugh, 
Harold concluded that the intruder was a human being. Some- 
thing in the laugh too struck upon his ear in a familiar note. 

“ Martin,” he cried, “ it can’t possibly be you I ” 

“ Yes, it be, though you’ve most stanked the life out of me I ” 
responded that youngster, rubbing himself down to ascertain that 
his limbs were safe. 

“ What in the world has brought you to London, Joe ? ” 

“ The Curlew have She’s at a ramshackle dirty ould place 
nigh the Tower of London, where the lions be and the King’s 
crown, and a few sojers trapesing up and down like as if they 
were a Whitsun show and all the world ought to come and gaaze 
at ’em.” 

“ And Daniel — where is he, Joe ? ” 

** Aboard the Curlew, in course. And he do want to see you 
slick right away to waunce. He set sail a-purpose all of a hurry, 
and we’ve had a fair wind all the way. My, the Curlew have 
flown this time ! ” 

“ Flown indeed I ” said Harold. “ Why, it is only five days 
ago since I saw her safely anchored at Langarth 1 What does 
Daniel want of me, Joe ? ” 

“ Thic’s more’n I can tell ’ee, seeing he be close as a dead con- 
ger ; but I reckon ’tis nows you’ll be glad of.” 

“ Has it to do with the Alert ? ” Harold cried eagerly. 

“Well, maybe it have, or some man who was aboord of 
her.” 

This answer brought a rush of hope with it, flowing with new 
light through his veins, and for an instant Harold stood silent, 
revolving in his mind all the consequences that might arise 
through his next resolve. To meet Estrild, bringing comfort 
with him and the certainty of happiness, was a prospect not to be 
forgone for the mere sake of seeing her at Salisbury and giving 
her the barren news of failure — a failure which could but harden 
her gloomy resolution to keep her promise to her dead brother. 
Harold shrank from the thought, and, turning to Josiah, he 
seized liim by the hand. 


164 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ I’m off with you in five minutes, Joe. I’ll sleep on board 
the Curlew to-night. Here — let me lead you out of the dark- 
ness. I ordered supper to be laid in my room, and I’m dead beat 
for want of food. You need something too, no doubt.” 

Josiah proved that he did by his appetite, while Harold ate 
as a duty, not knowing how his strength might be tried. Between 
them the viands were soon dispatched, and both started up in 
eagerness to depart. 

“ Stay a moment,” said Harold, as the thought struck him that 
Daniel’s news might detain him longer than he expected ; “I’ll 
write a line before I go, or the old woman who looks after these 
chambers will raise a hue and cry after me.” 

Accordingly he scratched across a sheet of paper — 

“I am obliged to leave unexpectedly on urgent business which 
may detain me for a few days.” 

Throwing down the pen when he had signed this, he extinguish- 
ed the lamp, and he and J oe groped their way through the dark- 
ness into the dimness of the night. 

“ Does nobody live here but you ? ” asked J oe, as he looked up 
at all the closed windows. 

“ I believe I am the only fellow in these chambers at present, 
Joe ; the others are all off* on circuit. Now I vote for going by 
the river ; it will be quicker and safer than walking, and there’s 
no coach to be had so late as this.” 

“ Why, our boat be waiting for us, to be sure!” said Joe. 
“ I corned by the river. I should never steered my way here by 
land, pooting in and out among hooses and carriages like a dog 
at a fair ; I should have been rouled ovver and knacked to jouds. 
Why, here’s your dog follering us, sir ! ” 

“ Go home. Lion 1 ” cried Harold to the big mastiff, who now 
rubbed his head against him. 

But his command had no effect ; so, when he and Joe jumped 
into the boat at the Temple stairs, the dog followed and curled 
himself up at his master’s feet. 

“ Poor old fellow — he is so glad to see me back that he won’t 
part from me 1 ” said Harold, in a tone of apology to Michael, 
who had charge of the boat. 

Michael did not respond with his usual cheerfulness ; he seem- 
td half asleep, and inclined to be silent. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


165 


“What are ’ee poor-tempered about?’’ asked Josiah, as he 
took up an oar. 

“ Simmin to me,” returned Michael, “you’d be poor-tempered 
too if you had bided here for two hours with langwidge ’round 
’ee that the screech-owls thrawed away as not decent enough for 
their throats.” 

“ What has happened, Michael ? The river-boatmen have been 
chaffing you, I am afraid.” 

“ Aw — chaff they call et, do ’em ? Then I reckon ’tis the chaff 
that will be burnt etarnally — thic’s the sort of chaff it i^” 

And with this Michael thrust his oar against the pier, and 
pushed off the boat with a strong hand. 

Another moment, and with steady strokes they were gliding 
down the river swiftly with the fast-ebbing tide— past slowly- 
toiling barges, on which fires glimmered, and on whose heaped 
decks swarthy men and begrimed women stood like dark ghosts 
against the starlit sky ; past tall ships looming upwards in the 
silent blackness, whose shadows made deeper night upon their 
path; past the grim and slimy shores, where, amid dens of 
misery, squal and squalor lurked, and whence sat time a wild 
cry arose, startling the stillness with a hurried fear, till it died 
down again into the old thrilling silence of the brooding night, 
whose dark wings were spread over the throbbing life, the sin, 
the sorrow, and the sleep of the mightiest city of the world. 
And night made all things beautiful, from the stateliest of ships 
to the smallest raft chafing in the tide against its chains, from 
the towering wharf and warehouse where richest goods lay piled 
to the lowest house where rags were heaped and wretchedness 
hid among them ; all were glorified by the vast starry canopy, 
whose light bedecked unsightliness with jewels, and hung casta- 
nets of gems on every ripple of the dark river. 

“ Mr. Olver,” said Michael, in a quick sudden whisper, “just 
look back, will ’ee, please ? Esn’t there a boat following us ? ” 

“ There is a boat behind us certainly, but I don’t see why it 
should be following us.” 

“Ease a bit, Joe; we’ll slacken speed and let ’em pass us.” 

Through this manoeuvre the boat on their track drew much 
nearer to them, but abstained from passing ; on the contrary, 
she slowed down to a snail’s pace, as if anxious to keep back in 
darkness. 

“ Ah. I thought so ! ” said Michael. “ You see, sir, they don’t 


166 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


want to go ahead of us. But by that trick of mine I catched 
sight of their figureheads afore they could draw back, and they’ve 
got the same oogly chap with ^em that chafied me — as you called 
it, sir.” 

« Likely enough, Michael. There is a mixture of all sorts on 
the Thames — honest men and river-thieves. But, if these are 
sea mps, we can pull away from them in five minutes.” 

‘‘ They’ve got a ‘ wherry,’ as they call it,” responded Martin, 
light as paper, and we are in a boat that can weather a sea. 
They could be in upon us in a minute, ef they had a mind to ; 
but they ’re. up to sumthing deeper than that, I reckon.” 

“ Perhaps so,” said Harold. “There are men whose employ- 
ment it is to fish for the dead in the river. There is scarcely a 
night without some poor wretch finding a grave here.” 

“There’s the Curlew ? ” cried Josiah joyfully, as the tight little 
ship loomed in sight after their boat had shot the bridge. 

“ Well, I’m glad we are through that,” said Michael, looking 
up at the frowning archways. “ My mind misgive me that them 
chaps meant to run us down in there. At the stairs I ofiered to 
wrastle with thic oogly waun ; but he shaked his head at that 
like wheat in the wind.” 

“ But what did ’a say to ’ee that was so galling ? ” asked 
Josiah. 

“Sayl He had the imperence to ax me from what man-o’- 
war I had desarted. And, when I answered sharp that I wasn’t 
one of thic sort, he turns round with a laugh to the other white- 
livered fellows, and says, ‘ A man don’t get a face like that on 
land — that’s a seafaring face,’ he says. ‘ You should chalk your 
cheeks, man, if you don’t want to be cotched. Or maybe you are 
looking for a crib to hide in ; if so, I’m your man ; ’ and he jerks 
his thunb over his left shoulder, and winks with a thick eye as 
full of wickedneas as a egg is full of meat. ‘ I don’t want none 
of your help — I can take care of myself, thank ’ee,’ I says in 
answer. ‘ I’m as used to the land as I am to the say. And 
maybe the land I live in have got fresh air and sunshine in it — 
not fog and bastliness like this here gashly wilderness of yeller 
bricks.’ ” 

Harold listened to this talk with mind so intent on other 
things that it passed over his understanding, and did not enter 
it till too late to be useful to him. 

“ With ^that,” continued Michael, “ he growed ooglier than 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


167 


ever. ‘Ef you won’t ’ave my ^elp/ he says, ‘you’ll find wuss 
luck than you looks for, unless you ’ands me over a guinea and 
keeps a civil tongue in your ’ead.’ ‘ My guineas are hard-earn- 
ed,’ I says to him, ‘ and I don’t chuck ’em away to loafers whose 
hands never worked for an honest shilling.’ ‘ There’s easier 
ways than working to get money in this town ; and I’ll make you 
pay yet,’ he says, looking at me like a sarpent with his head 
screwed to waun side.” 

“ Josiah,” sang out Daniel’s voice, “ row round to starboard, 
my son ; there’s crafts in the wa]^ to larboard ; we’ve slewed round 
a bit with the tide.” 

In another moment or two Harold stood once more on the deck 
of the stout little Curlew^ and was grasping hands with her brave 
captain. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Daniel led the way to the small cabin, and seated himself op- 
posite to Harold, with gravity and pui:pose on his resolute face. 

“Now, sir, you and I don’t want no roundabout talk. I know 
where to set my hand on the man that shot Mr. Carbonellis, and, 
if you like, we’ll seize him this night.” 

“ If I like, Daniel ? Great heavens, I’m burning to get that 
man in my grasp ! Where is he ? Must we go ashore for con- 
stables and bring them with us 1 ” 

“ This isn’t constables’ work ; ’tis our work, sir, and no other 
hand can touch it but yours and mine. The man is in a place 
where constables won’t go with their lives in their hands ; such 
poor ould worn-out bodies as they be aunly fit to sit in a box and 
shake a rattle.” 

“ But there are others, Daniel — good, honest, strong fellows, 
not like the watchmen you have seen in the streets.” 

“ And by the time we fetched they where would our man be ? 
I knaw where he is to-night. I don’t knaw where he’ll be to- 
morrow.” 

“ Then let us start at once, or we may lose him !”. Harold 
cried impetuously. 

“ Stay a minute, sir ! You must have pistols, and you must 
change your clothes. Dressed like a gentleman, you’d never get 
inside the door of thic den.” 


168 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“But how can I dress otherwise ? Harold asked impatiently. 
“ I have not brought a kit with me.” 

“ You must go in sailor’s toggery, sir, or there’s no chance for 
us. Will ye mind changing clothes with Michael ? ” 

“ Mind ? Of course not !” 

So Michael was called, and the exchange of suits was soon 
accomplished. As he was dressed now, Harold looked every 
inch a sailor, and none but a very practised eye could have dis- 
cerned that he was not “ to the manner born.” The versatility of 
his Irish nature enabled him easily to assume a part. 

“ Here’s your pocket-book and purse, sir,” said Michael, hand- 
ing them to him. “ It won’t do to leave them in these grand 
pockets of mine. Aw, my dears, I feel as big as a lord 1 Fine 
feathers maake fine birds, you knaw.” 

“ Don’t let ’em make a pattic of thee, Michael. Look arter 
the Curlew — that’s your work while I’m away ^long with Mr. 
Olver ; and, if we bain’t back by five o’clock, } ( u’il knaw we are 
both dead men.” 

“ Don’t ’ee tell up no such strams as that to me,” responded 
Michael. “ Where ’ee going to, then T 

“ Into a den of divils,” said Daniel — “ a place I got acquainted 
with years ago, afore my beard and my wits were growed. 
You’ll find the name of it, sonny, writ out plain on this here 
scrap of paper ; and ef we don’t come back by the time I tell ’ee, 
you go to the Lord Mayor, or, better still, go to waun of the 
King’s ships lying round here, and tell the cap’en of her where 
we be.” 

“ You be sure I won’t fail,” said Michael, looking grave. “ It 
will be a whist time for me till I see ’ee both back saafe.” 

“Now, sir, I must have one word with you before we go,” 
said Daniel. “ Michael, get the boat ready.” 

On this Michael left them ; and Daniel took from a case a big 
square bottle, from which he poured two glasses of golden liquor. 

“It isn’t for Dutch courage, sir, though ’tis Dutch-made,” 
observed Daniel, as he pushed the glass towards Harold ; “ but 
^tis just to warm our hearts for the fray, because — I won’t de- 
ceive you — we may have to have to fight for our lives. ’Tis like 
this here, sir — the man we are arter escaped from the Alert 

“ I was certain of it 1” exclaimed Harold, growing pale with 
excitement. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


169 


Stay a bit, Mr. Olver 1 He escaped afore the wreck, in the 
confusion aboard when Mr. Carbonellis dropped dead.^^ 

And he is the murderer? He fired the shot 

“ I believe he did,” said Daniel slowly • “ but I ain’t by no 
means sure. Hot but what he’s bad enough for murder when 
his blood is up ; though I can’t see no reason why he should shoot 
Mr. Carbonellis.” 

! ‘‘ Oh, Daniel, don’t search for reasons ! Ho did it — that’s 

enough 1 Let us start at once.” 

“You are too hasty, Mr. Olver;” and Daniel set his huge 
watch on the table. “ I know what time to start, and it wants 
ten minutes of it yet. No need to hurry into the fire.” 

“ Daniel, you know perfectly that I’d go to the mouth of hell to 
seize the man who murdered my friend,” said Harold, with set 
lips. “ So there’s no need for this delay.” 

“Yes, there is; strangers and drinkers don’t clear out of that 
crib till about two in the morning. We can’t fight a dozen, Mr. 
Olver, though we may tackle tliree or four.” 

“ You are right, Daniel, as you always are. So the man will 
stay — he is a lodger there ? ” 

Daniel said “ Yes,” and then quietly lighted his pipe. 

“ I wish you to understand the rights of it, sir,” he said, after 
taking two or three strong whiffs. “This chap we are arter has 
been a scamp and a runaway even since he was old enough to 
cuss and swear. His name is Travel — which means trouble — 
and a trouble he has always been ; and his, father is a small 
farmer — a tenant of some of the Langarth lands — and maybe a 
bit of a smuggler too.” 

“ And he owed Mr. Carbonellis a grudge? ” interposed Harold, 
with a quick breath 

“ That may be, sir — the father, I mean — ^but Squire Carbon- 
ellis going against smuggling was a matter that didn’t touch the 
son, who, after running away a dozen times from every honest 
trade he was put to, was a sailor aboard the Alert when the 
Squire met his death.” 

“ Yes, yes ; go on, Daniel.” 

“ Well, when that happened, the fellow, being wild to run 
away again, jumped overboard and swam ashore — desarted, in 
fact.” 

“You mean he feared Captain Armstrong would give him up. 


170 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


SO he took his escape into his own hands ? ” said Harold eagerly. 
“ That exonerates Captain Armstrong, and I am glad of it.’^ 

He uttered this in giving one swift thought gladly to Mary 
Armstrong ; but Daniel’s next words made him hold his breath 
in amazement. 

‘‘ He escaped to get money out of Captain Armstrong by 
threatening to tell all he knew ; and, when news came that his 
ship was gone down with all aboard, he let this out in cursing 
his ill-luck.^’ 

With arms resting on the table, Harold leaned forward in 
breathless impatience to hear the rest. 

‘‘Well, sir, the first five days we were at sea the fellow kept 
in hiding ; but, when the loss of the Alert was known for sartain, 
he wasn’t afeard to show himself, thinking naturally there wasn’t 
nobody alive to prove he was a desarter. Then it was that down 
at the Carbonellis Arms he got drinking ; and, while swearing at 
his bad luck, he let out that he could have made money if Cap- 
tain Armstrong were living.” 

“ But how — in what way I ” asked Harold, with a heavy sigh 
of disappointment. “ I was in hopes he himself was the guilty 
man — as you first declared, Daniel.” 

“ Don’t be too hurrysome, Mr. Olver ; let me go on quiet-like. 
I heerd tell of this talk of his the very first evening after the 
Curlew corned back ; and I was vexed as fire you was gone off so 
quick that I couldn’t let ’ee knaw nothing about it. But, thinks 
I to myself. I’ll go and hear this chap’s talk, and then I’ll see 
what’s to be done. So I gives him a stiff glass of grog or two, 
and he lets his jawing-tackle spin ahead with his drink. He 
begins first by saying he wasn’t af eared of Captain Armstrong 
living or dead, for he knawed something that would ruin him, 
and, if his ship was in harbour this minit, he wouldn’t have him 
up as a desarter for fear of what he could tell. ‘ Well, what 
can ’ee tell, my son ? ’ I says to him quite civil. ‘ Something 
’bout the bullet that killed Squire Carbonellis,’ he said. And I 
swear as he spoke his face got as white as the ghost-face I told 
of that I saw waunce. ‘ And who fired it ? ’ I axed. ’Pon this 
he turned sulky, and said he wasn’t going to tell nothing against 
hisself. Then of a suddin he axed if ’twas a far way to the 
North of England, and how long ’twould take a man to tramp 
there. ‘ For I haven’t money for coach-fare,’ he says, ’though I 
sha’n’t be without it long.’ ‘Well, I hope you’ll get is honest,’ I 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


171 


said to him. * and not for something you are afeard to tell of, as 
you are to speak the truth about Squire Carbonellis’s murder ! ' 
‘ Murder ! ^ he screeched all of a suddin, as is a hand was on his 

throat. ‘ I tell 'ee, ef 'twas my pistol ’ And then he 

dropped down in a fit, pullin’ and tearin’ like the naked man in 
the tombs.” 

‘‘ Daniel, why didn’t you seize him then and there ? ” cried 
Harold. 

“ Because I did what you wanted to do just now, Mr. Olver — 
I went for the constable. And he was a sore man to find, and 
his wife wouldn’t own where he was gone, till I let her know 
’twould be for her aun good ; then she said he was gone fishing. 
So I knaw that meant he was down on the beach arter a keg put 
in his way a-purpose that he mightn’t see the others which were 
a little out of his way. Well, and by the time I had found him, 
and he had put his constable clothes on and got his staff, our 
man was gone ! ” 

“ But surely he could not have gone far ! ” exclaimed Harold, 
in a tone that betrayed his bitter disappointment. 

“ He was a good ten miles off atop of the mail-coach, Mr 
Olver, which he had met at the cross-road where it passes abou 
eleven every night. When I found that out, I guessed he wat 
gone to London and ’twas a lie ’bout his having no money. And 
the landlady at the Carbonellis Arms, who hated him like pison 
— for good reasons too — gave me the scrap of paper with the 
name of the place writ on it where he was going to. He pulled 
it out of his pocket with his handkercher when his fit was pass- 
ing, she said, and she picked it up. When 1 got thic paper, 1 
made up my mind what to do — I hoisted sail and away with 
just victual enough not to starve on ef we had a fair wind.” 

Harold caught Daniel’s hand and held it for a moment with- 
out speaking. 

“Look to your pistol, sir; we start now in waun minute.” 

“ Daniel, what that man Trevel said about his pistol is to my 
mind conclusive evidence that his hand shot down Tristram Car- 
bonellis.” Harold spoke slowly, looking to the priming of his 
pistol the while. He had grown pale, and the lines of his face 
had hardened. 

“ That was my notion too, sir, even when I first spoke to you ; 
but, in thinking of it, I can’t see no reason for such a deed.” 

“ What was Trevel’s character on the Alert 1 ” asked Harold. 


172 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


“ Bad, I fear. And some say he was a spy for both sides — 
Preventive men and smugglers/^ 

“ There lies the motive, said Harold, as he placed the pistol 
in his breast-pocket. “ Tristram doubtless knew of his treachery 
to the service, and the man feared he would divulge it to Cap- 
tain Armstrong.” 

“That don’t account for what he said himself about his Cap- 
tain,” returned Daniel. 

“ No, that’s true. Daniel, one question before we start. Why 
did you write so frankly to Mrs. Armstrong ? ” 

“ Frankly repeated Daniel. “ I did but tell the story of the 
tv^reck as we saw it, and the Preventive officer took down my 
words for the poor lady. I was sorry for her, sir, as any man 
might be.” 

“ No offence, Daniel ; but I thought it a pity you should have 
mentioned Tristram’s death, and my pursuit of the Alert^ and — 
and all the rest of it.” 

“ You mean your brave swim arter Captain Armstrong f I 
did tell that ; but I never said waun word else.” 

With this Daniel caught up his big watch and beckoned to 
Harold to follow him. 

In two minutes more both were on the dark Thames, with Joe 
and another lad rowing them swiftly to the dimly-seen shore. 
As they floated onwards, sitting in silence, Harold pondered 
Daniel’s disclaimer and Mary Armstrong’s words, and, putting 
his hand on his pocket-book, in which he had placed the jewelled 
pen she gave him, he wondered whether his expedition that night 
would militate against the promise that pen had written. 


CHAPTER XXVL 

The tide had turned and was rushing up the river, bringing a 
cold air with it tasting of the sea, and a mist which covered all 
things with a dreary and damp palL The wash of the tide 
brojight the rowers rather suddenly against the steps of the 
landing-place, and the boat struck them with a little thud. 

“ Steady lads 1” said Daniel, as with one strong hand placed 
against the stairs he thrust the boat several yards back from the 
slimy steps. “Now hearken, both of ’ee, to what I have to say. 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


173 


You, Joe and Michael, are to come down here at four o’clock, 
and you wait waun hour till five ; then, if we don’t come back, 
Michael will do what I toiild ’un just now.” 

“ All right !” returned Joe, with a wistful look in his keen 
eyes. “ I wish I was going ’long with ’ee. Simmin to me, three 
is a luckier number than two.” 

“No, no, Joe ; it is not a fit place for you where we are going 
to.” 

“Then I’d bide outside of it,” said Joe, “and whistle to give 
warning ef I seed anything oogly coming ; or I’d run for help if 
needed.” 

“ There something in that,” observed Harold, whispering for a 
moment to Daniel, who, turning now to the other lad, asked him 
if he could take the boat back alone to the Curlew. 

“ I should reckon I could,” returned the youngster ; with im- 
mense confidence. 

“Then come along, Joe,” said Harold, springing ashore as the 
boat again touched the steps. 

At the same moment a dark object emerged from the water 
with a splash and shook itself with great energy. 

“ I’m dashed if it ain’t your dog, sir !” exclaimed Josiah. 

“ He’ve swimmed after us aal the way. Well, I’m glad; for 
hell be rare company for me as I bide outside waiting for ’ee,” 

“ That’s true ; for Lion is a better protector than a watch- • 
man,” said Harold, with a feeling of satisfaction that the boy he 
was taking into danger should have such a guard. 

Once more Daniel gave his orders to the other lad, whose oars 
now backed water and took the boat away into the silent dark- 
ness that brooded over the rushing river. It was like the de- 
parture of an ark of safety, and all three stood for an instant on 
the squalid shore listening to the thud of oars which rose into 
the night like the beat of a great heart or the tramp of many 
steps in unison sounding as one. 

“We must drop talk now,” said Daniel, in a quiet voice. 

So they turned silently from the dark river and set their faces 
towards the city which it filled with wealth and honour. 

At the head of the steps Harold gave one glance again to the 
wonderful picture before him — the richest river in the world 
rushing up into the heart of the great city it nourishes, bearing 
on its broad breast the fruits of human toil in every land beneath 
the sun. To the right a long belt of light crossed the darkness, 


174 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


defining that old quaint bridge, now among the memories of the 
past, and above and below it were a thousand faint and twink- 
ling gleams, shadowing to the mind^s eye — not distinctly showing 
— the countless ships from whose dark shapes they sprang. And 
amid all these lights speaking, voiceless, of earth’s cares and 
riches, sorrows and toil — the life and death of a world — there 
shone another, purer light, mingling among but not of them — the 
light of stars, uttering in clear language a faithful message from 
other worlds beyond men’s ken — worlds unknown and far away, 
but not too far to be unseen, or to be denied even by the scoffer 
who lives unbelieving and dies without hope. 

From the river Harold turned his gaze upwards to the vast 
jewelled canopy, whose countless lights touched his heart with a 
sense of the mysterious infinity of life rolling, throbbing, burning 
through the immeasurable realms of space ; and from that one 
glance, that one half-formed thought, he gathered courage. 

How could he die when the great law of the universe was 
life ? To lay down one existence was only a step to a higher and 
better, and, if his death now — his passing from this world — gave 
to the woman he loved the peace, the calmness now so cruelly 
destroyed, surely he should not have died in vain. But it was a 
time for action, not thought ; and, as he walked on by Daniel’s 
side, he strove to quell the feelings within him — the yearning of 
his heart for one touch of Estrild’s hand, one look from her eyes 
that might assure him of her love and faith. 

Through slums and courts, through narrow streets and foul 
alleys, sometimes finding silence and solitude, but often coming 
upon sights and sounds that filled the heart with a shuddering 
pity, they wended their way till they reached a flight of steps 
leading apparently into some dock or basin by the river-side. 
All was darkness here ; but Harold heard the slush of water as 
he peered forward into the depth which lay below him. 

It was here that Daniel suddenly stopped. 

“Joe, my son, I take you no furder. Crouch down here in 
the shadow of the wall, and hould tight on to the dog. If you 
both keep still tongues in your heads, there bain’t no fear of your 
being seen.” 

“You won’t be long, uncle Dan?” returned Josiah. I’d liefer 
be in a fight than be lonely.” 

“ Keep your courage up, Joe,” said Harold ; “ and don’t forget 
to whistle if needs be. Now, Lion” — and he put his hand on the 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


175 


dog ’3 head — “ stand by him and guard him well till I come back. 
Would it not have been better, Daniel, if you had ordered the 
boat to come here for us ? ’’ 

“ Impossible, sir ; as you’d see it ’twas daylight. There are 
docks and gates between us and the river.” 

“ Do we go down these steps?” asked Harold, in an amazed 
whisper, as he saw Daniel begin the descent. 

“ ’Tis the aunly way, sir. Come on as quiet as you can.” 

Josiah heard the footfall of their steps a short way down the 
descent. Then all wajs silence, and no sound smote his ears save 
the slow slush of the unseen water that beat sluggishly against 
the steps. 

At first the dog had made a bound forward to follow his 
master ; but Joe, with arms round his neck, held hini back by 
main force. Lion too had evidently understood Harold’s last 
injunctions, and was but obeying his natural impulse in this one 
bound ; for now his conscience had reason checking him, he 
settled down to his duty with watchful eyes and 3ars alert to 
every sound. 

“ Good dog ! ” whispered Joe, caressing him. “ Wag your tail, 
old fellow, as much as you’ve got a mind to, but keep your mouth 
close ” — Joe being ignorant of the fact that it is not a mastifTs 
way to let his whereabouts be known, like a mere cur, by 
barking. 

So dog and boy, in dead silence, kept within the shadow of the 
high warehouse wall, and, shrouded in darkness, they saw unseen 
many gjliastly figures of the night flit by — some in hunger and 
rags, voiceless in their misery, some drunken and raving, bawl- 
ing coarse songs or quarrelling with slatternly women, or with 
their own reeling shadows. The dog let them all pass by in 
silence, and seemed to sleep, as with half-closed eyes and massive 
jaw he lay with his head resting on Josiah’s knee. Half fear- 
ful, yet half enjoying his strange new position, the boy watched 
and wearied, and heard the clocks of distant churches chime the 
quarter to three. 

Scarcely had the vibration died away on the dull thick air, 
when Lion rose, and with head erect stood as though scenting 
evil in the wind. 

“Lie down, Lion !” whispered Joe. 

But the next moment he started himself to his feet ; for a man 
had suddenly emerged from an archway on the opposite side, 


176 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


and, after looking furtively up and down the street, placed him- 
self with back against the wall at right angles with Joe Here 
he waited, unconscious of any presence but his own, and after a 
moment he drew a small box from his pocket, and, putting it on 
the ground, knelt on one knee, and proceeded with flintjand steel 
to procure himself a light for his pipe. As these two old-world 
articles were struck together with a sharp click, a shower of 
sparks sprang from them, and one at last falling among the tin- 
der in the box ignited it. Then the man, bending low, blew into 
it, and a dull light was spread over his face, and Joe instantly 
recognized it as the face of the man whom he had seen in the 
boat that followed them from the Temple stairs. 

It was an ill-looking face, of a cunning low type, and Joe was 
glad that its owner’s intentness on the difficult task of lighting a 
match in slow-burning and apparently damp tender had so com- 
. pletely absorbed his faculties that he neither perceived him nor 
the dog. Taking advantage of his having to strike with flint 
and steel again — which he did with a growling accompaniment 
of ugly language — Joe rose cautiously, and, followed by Lion, 
stole down the steps with such silent tread that he was un- 
noticed and unheard, the sharp clicking sound of the steel in 
the man’s ears doubtless covering the slight rustle of his 
departure. 

“He won’t see us down her,” thought Joe, as he descended the 
steps ; “ and, as they went this way, they must come back this 
way ; so I sha’n’t miss Dan’l and Mr. Olver.” 

But here Joe stood still in dismay, for the steps appeared to 
lead only into the black and slimy water, whose slush was now 
reaching his feet. Turning back with a shiver of loathing and 
horror, he perceived that he had passed a low wooden gate, part- 
ly open and partly broken down. In a moment he had reached 
it, and discovered that it was the entrance to a passage or under- 
ground way dark as a dungeon except for a glimmering light at 
the end, which flung a dull ray or two on the damp wall, showing 
that the passage turned sharply to the right. And now, in an 
uneasy way. Lion put his nose to the ground, then raised his 
head with a low growl, and, bounding off, disappeared like a 
shadow beneath the dull lamp. 

“Well, if he scents danger for his master,” said Joe, looking 
after him wistfully, “ I can’t say it was mean of him to desart 
me. But it’s lonesome, and I’ve a good mind to follow ’un.” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


177 


But here Joe’s meditations were cut short by the sound of 
voices above him. 

“ I hope you are quite sure of your man,” some one was saying 
at the top of the steps. 

“ If 1 wasn’t sure, I shouldn’t be here,” responded the same 
voice that had growled curses into the tinder-box. 

“ And how many fellows shall we find in this den ? ” asked the 
other, who spoke, Joe thought, much like a gentleman. 

You’ll find the deserter I informed against, and most likely 
two or three more — good sailors all of them. ” 

“ Well, when we get them — and I expect there’ll* be a fight 
first — you will have your blood-money — not before. In your 
dealings with me you’ll have to be above-board — no treachery, 
mind. I know this to be the most infamous crib in all the slums 
by the river.” 

“If it wasn’t seafaring men wouldn’t hide in it.” 

“‘Blood-money — seafaring men !’ ” Joe repeated the words 
in bewilderment while his heart beat fast and his face grew hot. 
Then suddenly the truth struck him with a thrill of fear. The 
man with the evil face was a base informer, and the other was an 
officer in charge of a press-gang. And Joe put his whistle to his 
lips, and blew with all his might. 

****** 

When Daniel led the way through the damp and ugly passage, 
he paused at the turning where a dull oilTlamp hung from a 
bracket in the wall. 

“ This is an underway used for loading and unloading ships,’* 
he said. “ You see, it is mighty handy for rolling down casks. 
It’s a handy way too for reaching the place we are going to, or 
for escaping from it,” he added slowly. “We are carrying our 
lives in our hands, sir. If we betray ourselves, we shall be set 
upon — and they’d make short work of us. Men in hiding for 
their own lives don’t stand upon ceremony with the lives of 
others.” 

“ What sort of scamps are we likely to find here ?” saked Har- 
old, 

“ Desarters, mutineers, Lascars from East-Ind;‘amen, and 
scamps like this fellow Trevel.” 

“ Let us hurry on,” said Harold, to whom the mention of this 
man’s name brought a fever of haste. 

After turning to the right, the passage tended upward, and 

li 


178 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


brough them once more ber.eath the sky, though but a narrow 
strip ; for they found themselves now in a sort of court surround- 
ed on every side by tall dark warehouses. At one corner there 
was an outlet into an alley, along which there ran a wall, seemingly 
a dead- wall without window and without door. Neverthe- 
less on this wall Daniel knocked in a peculiar way ; and after a 
short interval a sort of hatchway opened above him, from which 
a grimy and hairy face protruded. 

“ What/s there askei a cautious voice. 

“ Sailors,” responded Daniel, “ wanting a hiding-place for a 
few days, cumraaJes.” 

“ Men-o’-war’s men ? ” demanded the head. 

“ Something like it,” said Daniel ; “ and pay in our pockets.” 

The head retreated, the hatchway was shut ; the wall was a 
blank again. 

Harold’s hopes fell. 

“ They won’t admit us,” he said to Daniel, in a tone of dis- 
may. 

“Wait a bit, partner,” returned Daniel, assuming another 
voice and manner. 

Now then ! ” said a sharp voice ; and a trap-door was opened 
almost at their feet. 

The rays of a lantern came up through it ; but no one was 
visible, though a ladder was dimly seen. 

As Harold descended, he put his hand on his pistol, and felt 
it was secure ; and Daniel touched him on the shoulder with a 
gesture that meant caution. 

At the foot of the ladder stood a woman, handsome and yet 
repulsive, young, and yet with the hardness of age on every line 
of her sharp face. She led the way into a low room, in which 
five or six men sat drinking and smoking. A half-open door 
gave a peep of another room, more redolent still of evil smells, 
and in here men lay sleeping. 

“New pals ! ” said the woman shortly to the smokers. 

One of them started up and stared at Daniel, while his bronz- 
ed face grew gradually as colourless as a tanned skin would per- 
mit. 

“ Halloa, Danie ! What are you in this lay for ? ” 

“ The old trade. Travel — kegs, ane too many of ’em.” 

Harold glanced at the man with a great heart-throb which 
rose even to his throat. There, hidden in that man’s evil soul, 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


179 


lay the secret of Tristram’s death. With a word he could clear 
up a mystery which, like a canker, was poisoning Estrild’s life 
and ruining his own. Love, happiness — all that man holds dear 
— lay within the silence of this coarse and audacious ruffian, 

“ Kegs !” he repeated with a laugh not quite genuine. “ Well, 
I thought sure, Dan’l, you were too old a bird to be cotched by 
a blind pup of a Preventive !” 

‘‘ Ef I was cotched, I shouldn’t be here !” said Daniel senten- 
tious! y. 

“Well, they’ve seized the Curlew^ I reckon, ef they haven’t 
got the cap’n in the bilboes !” 

“ There you are out of your reckoning too,” returned Daniel ; 
“the Curlew is safe and sound.” 

“ Then why are you here — lurking and spying V demanded 
Trevel, with a big oath. “ Comrades ” — and he turned to the 
other men who had been listening suspiciously to this short 
dialogue — “ here’s a fellow who is sailing afore the wind — pros- 
perous, mind you — and no enemy in chase ; and I votes we ax 
him what he’s doing among honester men in wuss luck than his- 
self !” 

A babel of tongues rose in answer ; furious words and threats 
were flung around promiscuously, as if addressed to no one in 
particular, but to all traitors and spies in general. 

Daniel stood his ground calmly ; but Harold, whose hands 
were burning to seize Trevel by the throat, grew excited and 
angry. 

“ What is the use of further words ?” he whispered in Daniel’s 
ear. “ Let us la}' hold of this scamp, and drag him away at 
once.” 

“We should have a dozen knives in us in a minute if we tried 
such a hazardous game; and in two minutes more our bodies 
would be in the Thames,” said Daniel, in the same low voice. 
“You know how handy the river is.” 

“Speak upj” cried TreveL “ We don’t want no plots hatched 
here in whispers !” 

“ There’s no plot ’cept axing each other what drink we should 
order for the company all round,” said Daniel. “Please to say, 
gentlemen, what your liquor is, and I’m the man to pay for it.” 

This speech was received with the modified welcome usually 
given to the overtures of an enemy ; nevertheless, it was by no 
means scorned or refused. And by the time each man liad 


180 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


chosen the particular drink he affected, a better feeling was es» 
tablished between the old and new comers. Laughs and jokes 
went around, grim stories were told, in the midst of which one 
man fell asleep with his head on the table ; another stretched him- 
self on a bench and also slumbered. 

Harold and Daniel exchanged glances ; they had to deal now 
with three men only ; one of these was Trevel. The time was 
come to carry out the plan on which they had resolved to act. 

“We are a small company now,” said Daniel, “ and all friends ; 
so I reckon I can speak without fear. Now I tell ’ee what it is, 
soas (companions) — me and my cumraade bainT here to hide nor 
to spy ; we are on a bold ventiir’ for which we want men.” 

He made a slight pause, and looked round as if for an answer. 
To the minds of those to whom he spoke a venture meant some 
daring deed of smuggling, or even of piracy. 

“ And what’s the pay if your men escape hanging ? ” demanded 
a young fellow who seemed an especial friend of Trevel’a. 

“ First-rate pay, and a share of the profits.” 

The man laughed. 

“ A share of the risk and the booty, and plenty of fun in the 
fighting line, I expect ! Well, it would have suited me once, but 
not now ; ” and, putting down his glass with a sigh, he pulled up 
his sleeve, showing a shrivelled arm like a skeleton’s. “ Smashed 
in a door in escaping, after something I’m wanted badly for,” he 
added, as, taking up the glass again, he drank the contents at a 
gulp. “ You must look further, friend ; a broken man is only 
good for — what I shall one day get — hanging.” 

Harold was silent from pity ; but Trevel laughed. 

“ Hark to him now !” he said. “ That’s how he goes on in his 
dismal fits ; but when his blood’s up he’s a devil still.” 

Here the man who sat near Harold bent forward and whisper- 
ed to him — 

“ Was a mate once — jealousy — shot his wife and her lover; 

and, by , serve ’em right too ! Are you the boss of this ven- 

tur’T’ 

“Yes,” said Harold eagerly ; “ I’ve staked my life on it ; and 
I’ll pay any money to get my man — or men,” he added, mending 
his speech hastily. 

“Well, I’ll join if all’s fair and above-board. Now cousin 
Jackj ” — and he turned to Trevel — “ what do you say ? Shall 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


181 


we leave this blind ould den, where we are boosing our lives 
away, and get out on the briny waunce more ? 

“ Well, it won’t suit me,” said Trevel slowly. “ I do know the 
sea too well ; I’ve had enough of salt junk and hard tack; and, 
moreover, I mistrusts Dan’l. He’s a pilot ; he edn’t the man to 
go on a ventur’.” 

“ I didn’t say it were my ventur’,” returned Daniel. 

“ No ; it is mine,.” said Harold ; “and I’ll pay well.” 

“ Yours ? ” sneered Travel. “ You don’t look like it neither. 
You’ve the look of a man-o’-war’s man who ought to have swabs 
on his shoulders, ready to cut a Drencher’s throat for pay and 
glory, but not so ready to hand him honest coin for good brandy. 
No ; I ain’t took in by neither one of ’ee, nor by your, soft sawder, 
nor your liquor — there now ! ” 

“ Tiieii why should we come here,” asked Daniel boldly, “ if 
not for men we want ? ^ 

“How can I say?” retorted Trevel, whose brain was how 
touched by drink. “Folks often have plans in their heads 
which they don’t tell of. I may have waun myself. I may have 
a better vehtur' on hand than yours, and waun which will bring 
me a sight deal more money, and no risk,” he added, with a 
drunken laugh. “ Aunly let my slipping otF without leave from 
the Alert be forgot a bit, so that I can slip away from here, and 
that rotten ould bark shall bring me a fortin’ yet.” 

On hearing these words Harold’s caution broke down. He 
started up and seized Trevel by the collar in a firm grip, and 
called upon Daniel to help him. An indiscribable uproar fol- 
lowed — a mingling of oaths and smashing of glass, the com- 
mencement of a battle which had not time to strike a blow, for 
the very instant the fray began it was quelled. At the first 
sound of the coming figiit the woman appeared among them 
who had stood by the trapdoor. She was furious, and yet calm ; 
she looked all round her with steely, cold, relentless eyes. 

“ You know my rule,” she said, in her hard thin voice — “ no 
fighting allowed. I pay the watch to keep away from this place, 
and I pay them to come when I want them. The signal is 
always ready which calls them. If I hear another sound, 1 raise 
it.” 

She vanished through the low doorway by which she had 
entered ; and the men, after an instance’s silence, began to praise 
her. 


182 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ A woman to keep her word, no end of grit in her, and hand- 
some as a pictur’.’^ 

“ Handsome,^' said Daniel. “ Why, sheVe got a jaw like a 
sarpin, and an eye like an alligator, and a thin greedy mouth 
like a wolfs, 

“ So she have,” said the drunken sleepy man, raising his head 
from the table ; “ and them three things would take in any 
man.” 

“ And give a woman her own way, though lives went down 
afore her,” said Trevel’s friend. 

‘‘Well, she^s missus here,” said a third ; “and there’s lives in 
her hand now — and lives on her head too — of men she have 
given up.” 

“ So she does that sometimes ? ” said Harold. 

“Yes,” returned the other, in a whispered frightened voice ; 
“ when it’s worth more to sell a man than to keep him, she’ll do 
it.” 

By this time Trevel had reached the whimpering stage of 
drink ; he was a victim, an ill-used man. 

“ Look here Dan’l,” he said, in an aggrieved tone, “ I ax ’ee 
whether or no you reckon it a fair thing to bring a swell in here 
as a man-o’ war’s man to lay hold o’ me ?” 

“ Fair enough ef he w'ants you badly and pays you well.” 

“ Let ’un keep his money in his purse ; 1 don’t want none of 
it. My ventur’ is better nor his any day. And if I hadn’t took 
French leave, I’d go to the Admiralty to-morrow,and tell ’em there 
that Cap’en Armstrong wrecked his ship a-purpose ; so I should 
get money both sides. But I knowed which’d pay best ; my 
brains were in my head when I slipped out of the ould Alerts 

“ But your brains bain’t in your head now, Trevel, else you’d 
come along with me and my pal. You’d be safe out of harm’s 
way. You’ll be hanged as a desarter if cotched — mind that. 
And you’ll put more money in your pocket than any ventur’ of 
your aun can ever bring ’ee.” 

“That’s more than you do know,” returned Trevel, in a drunk- 
en tone of swagger. “ Maybe I can sret folks hanged ’stead of 
being hanged myself ; and a rich man will pay a deal to get the 
rope off his neck.” 

“ But what if my friend will pay more to put it on him ? ” said 
Daniel slowly. “ Name your sum, Trevel, like a man, and make 
an end of it.’* 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


183 


Trevel grew pale ; for a moment he looked as if some shock 
had sobered him. 

“ Do you raean/^ he said, “that your curnrade knaws some* 
thing ’bout the matter I’ve took in hand! ” 

“Yes, I mean that.” 

“ Well, I’m darned ! ” And, leaning back against the wall 
without a word more, Trevel wiped the perspiration which had 
begun to stream from his forehead. 

“ Think it-over,” continued Daniel, in the same low voice — 
“ money and safety. For, arter making a clean breast of what’s 
on your mind, I’d run the Curlew out to sea, and put ’ee in a 
fregatt I know on flying the stars and stripes ; and, with thic flag 
over your head, I reckon even a British cap’a would think twice 
before axing for ’ee.” 

For a moment Travel’s muddled brain seemed to grasp this 
idea with pleasure, for a smile broke over his face. 

“I reckon you ain’t far wrong,” he said, in the slov/ deliberate 
voice of a man who feels that drink is fast stealing his senses. 

“ And, if your cumraade had kept his hands off me Holloa, 

where is he gone ? ” he asked, looking round with sudden scared 
eyes. 

Daniel rose from his chair in anxiety. Harold was not in the 
room. 

“ Where’s my friend ? ” he asked uneasily of the pale man with 
the shrivelled arm. 

“ In there talking to her,” he answered, pointing to the low 
door in the wall. “ She always pleases new-comers,” he added, 
with a laugh. 

Daniel glanced at the door with misgiving at his heart ; he re- 
solved to enter the inner room, and had made one step forwards, 
when the woman emerged from it, followed by Harold. 

She walked straight up to Trevel, and confronted him with a 
steadfast face. 

“I advise you to accept the ofier that has been made you,” she 
said in quiet hard tone. 

Trevel was too tipsy now to be afraid even of this human 
tigress. 

“ Do you, ma’am ?” he said, shaking his head with an attempt 
at a leer. “Butibain’t of the some mind. I mean to bide 
here ’long with you till the fog clears, and then I set sail for my 
own port.” 


184 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


‘‘You are misiaken/^ she answered — and her thin cruel voice 
made the man’s heart quiver — “ you will not stay another in- 
stant here. You have always been a troublesome fellow, ready 
to fight and quarrel at a word. I keep no such scamps in my 
peaceable house. You know your way out of it. There it lies;’^ 
and she pointed to the door. “ Take it.” 

Trevel’s face was ghastly with rage and fear. He rose, shak- 
ing in every limb; his quivering lips, rising over his teeth, could 
scarcely form the words he uttered. 

“ So you’ve sold me, you she-fiend ! But I don’t leave this 
house for nothing.” 

As he spoke, fumbling secretly in his pocket, he had unclasped 
a huge knife, and now with this open in his hand, he sprang on 
Harold, and made a furious lunge at his breast. The next in- 
stant, with his hand still in the air, he was pinned to the ground, 
and the teeth of a huge mastilf were on his throat. 

“That’s a good dog,” remarked the woman cooly. “I thought 
he belonged to you, when he dashed through the trap when I 
opened it a minute ago. He has saved your life this time. 
Take your man away. You three are strong enough to do it.” 

“ You are reckoning without me,” said the pale man with the 
shrivelled arm. ‘‘They don’t touch him.” 

The woman’s scorn was ineffable. 

“ You !” she said with withering contempt. “ I don’t reckon 
with such as you ! Perhaps you’ll go with him f ’ 

“ I will,” he answered, white with fury. 

“ Then I’ll come to see you hanged,” said the woman, in her 
coolest voice. “ It will be a pretty sight. Call off your dog,” 
she added, turning to Harold — “he’s choking your man, and you 
want him living — don’t you? — not dead.” 

“ Let him go, Lion.” 

The huge mastiff obeyed his master’s voice with the silence of 
of his‘race, and Trevel, cowed, livid, and shaken, rose slowly. 
At this moment a tall old-fashioned clock in the room, after a 
preliminary gasp and rattle, began to strike three. 

“Hold your man,” whispered the woman, “and look to your 
own lives ! I can do no more,” 

She had drawn Harold apart to whisper this, and now, ap- 
proaching the table, she said, in her thin incisive voice — 

“I break my rules for no man. All lights out at three 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


185 


o’clock !” and instantly her sudden quick hand darted out from 
her shawl — and extinguished the oil-lamp standing on the table. 

The room was plunged in darkness. But at the very moment 
that Harold had perceived her intent he and Daniel seized Trevel 
and held him firmly, standing one on each side of him. 

“If you move a muscle,” said Haro’d quietly, “ the dog will be 
on your throat again. I want nothing from you but the truth, and 
no harm shall befall you.” 

“You had best come along paiceably, my son,” observed 
Daniel, in his blandest voice, “ or I shall have to knack ’ee down, 
and drag ’ee along a bit rough maybe.” 

He and Harold had spoken and acted simultaneously, and now 
both drew Trevel towards the third door in the room, which 
opened into a short passage in whicli the ladder stood leading to 
the trap-door. 

Either their intention had not for a moment been divined or 
the surprise of darkness had bewildered the ruffians around them, 
for no attempt was made to hinder them in their design till, 
gasping and struggling, Trevel yelled out — 

“ Look to yourselves, men ; your lives will be sold next I Will 
you stand by like cowards and see me murdered 1 ” 

A volley of oaths answered him ; then the sound of uncertain 
steps mingling with voices cursing the darkness, rushed upon the 
fugitives as they hurried Trevel to the foot of the ladder. 

Daniel mounted first, and hauled the man up after him as if 
he were a bale of goods, helpless in his strong hands. Harold 
followed, but had scarcely ascended half-way, when, with a yell 
of fury, some little creature sprang on him and dragged him 
backwards with one hand. 

It was the man with the shrivelled arm. His one useful hand 
had a grip of iron ; the setting of his teeth could be heard as he 
knit them together in his fury. 

“You don’t carry ofifiny friend and leave me alive, you miser- 
able spy and traitor ! ” he said. 

“ Kill him,” cried Trevel — “ kill him ! Knife him at once ! ” 

But the man had but one hand he could use ; to get at any 
weapon, if he had one, he must let Harold go ; so he hesitated, 
and in that moment lost his chance. Daniel’s strong grasp was 
on him and flung him aside like a reed. Har. Id rose, bewildered 
and breathless, and saw that he had lifted the trap-door and 


186 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


hurled Trevel outside, and then sprung from the ladder to his 
aid. 

Even at this moment of peril, weak and scarce able to breathe 
through that relentless hold upon his throat, Harold thought but 
of one terror. 

“ Trevel will escape ! ” he gasped forth. 

“ Come and see ! cried Daniel, dragging him up the ladder 
by main force. 

“ Help, help ! shrieked the man, whose rage had turned him 
into a manic, as, throwing himself on the ladder, he first strove 
to shake it from its fastenings, and, failing to do this, he seized 
Harold by the ankle and held on like grim death. 

This did not effect Daniel ; he hauled them both up without 
any apparent effort, as though the second man hanging on the 
strength of his hand were a mere fly. 

But, as he reached the open trap-door and safety, there was a 
shout, a rush of many feet, a flash of light, and five or six ruf- 
fians were upon them. A dozen hands were stretched out to 
zeize them and drag them down to death, when a piercing whis- 
tle rang through the air, and the cursing, raging crowd staggered 
backwards as if struck powerless by a blow or the fall of a thun- 
derbolt. Daniel, knowing that it was J oe’s whistle, took instant 
advantage of the sudden consternation which had turned them 
into helpless cowards, and, pulling Harold with him, he sprang 
through the opening on to the firm ground. For an instant ere 
he closed the trap door he caught a glimpse of scared eyes staring 
upwards, the dull red light of a single candle flaring in them ; he 
saw the set hard face of the woman coming towards them, and 
the dead-white face of the man who had clung to Harold falling 
backwards from the ladder. Then the trap went down and shut 
it all from his sight. 

Trevel was on the ground, and the dog, panting and with eyes 
of tire, stood with two huge paws on his chest, holding him 
down, yet not touching him with the bristling teeth over which 
his lip was raised. 

“ Well done. Lion !” — and Harold drew a great breath of re- 
lief as, patting the dog on the head, he helped his trembling pris- 
oner to rise. 

“ Come on sir !” cried Daniel. ‘‘ There’s danger in the wind. 
Joe haven’t whistled for nothing ; ” and, catching Trevel — now 
subdued and helpless — by the arm, he hurried him onwards. 


FROM TUB OTHER SIDE. 


187 


At a running pace he and Harold, holding him on either side, 
dashed through the court, reached the underground way, and 
rushed down its dark slope. But near the sharp angle where it 
turned to the river a breathless figure met them, and flung itself 
before them with outstretched arms. The light of the lamp in 
the wall showed them Joe’s face white with fear. 

‘‘Turn back,” he cried, “and run for your lives 1 The press- 
gang be on us ! Oh, Lord, they be hei'e — you’re too late ! ” — 
and, clinging to Daniel, the boy fell forward with a sob of terror, 
as the measured tramp of feet broke upon the stillness with a 
horror like the closeness of deatli. 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

Gradually the great city awoke to life as the dim light from its 
dim sky proclaimed to the human hive within it that another day 
had risen on their toil. Down by the river- side the v/aifs and 
strays who, like a ragged fringe, line its shore, began their daily 
work of snatching frotn the tide the unsavoury refuse or the 
battered broken objects which its wash flung upon the slime. 

Michael, sitting in his boat, watched these dim figures as they 
flitted to and fro in the gray dawn, wandering purposeless — as it 
seemed to him — on the unsightly shore, or with a sudden rush 
clutching at some shapeless thing floating towards the mud, re- 
jected by the river. 

He wondered at them in his country mind, so full of memories 
of clear skies, glorious sea, and flowery land ; and his thoughts 
flitted round their hazy figures, not comprehending their hard un- 
lovely lives, and yet pitying them. 

To him they seemed to rise from the mud itself, as in little 
groups of two or three they sprang upon his vision, suddenly 
looming from out the fog or serai-darkness like weird creatures 
on the borderland beyond humanity, or like lost spirits wander- 
ing on the outskirts of a world that refused them a shelter. 

“ Do ’em slaip here, I wonder, ’pon the mud,” he said to him- 
self, “ or sornewheres in the dirt ? Have ’em got a plaace they 
caa.ls home? Well, I’d sooner live down by the sa’ on half mait 
than up here in Lun’on church town among baistliness, and 
whisht living bones walking round in rags, hungering arter 


188 


FROM THE OTnER SIDE. 


things that pigs wouldn’t wrastle for. Bless us, what have 
’em catched hould of now ? And squabbling over it too, they 
be I ” 

Here Michael raised his voice and accosted the group of urchins 
who were fighting over some object whicli one of them held 
tightly clasped. 

“ What have ’ee got there, my son ? I’ll give ’ee sixpence for 
it, whatever it be.” 

The mellow coaxing Cornish voice touched their ears with an 
unwonted seund ; for an instant the struggle was suspended, and 
Michael was answered civilly — 

“ It’s worth more than sixpence, sir. But you shall have it 
for a bob ! ” 

Then came a clamour of tongues. 

“ It isn’t ’is ; ’tis mine 1 No, ’tis Jack’s ; he seed it fust ! Don’t 
you pay him nothing, sir 1 ” 

“ Bring it along.” cried Michael, and I’ll see fair among you 
all ! ” 

“’Ere you are, sir 1 ” — and with a rush four boys were in the 
water, clutching at the gunwale of the boat, while a fifth, 
with sharp and anxious eyes upon his enemies, handed him a 
sailor’s hat. 

Michael took it in his Iiand, and his heart, with a bound of 
fear, struck him with a sudden faintness, and his face grew death- 
white. 

The hat was his own — the one he had lent to Harold. 

“ Was it in the river ?” he asked brokenly. 

“ Yes, sir — floating in ; I cotched it, sir. I see’d it fust, sir. 
It’s mine, sir ! ” 

And the babel of tongues began again, mingled with a few 
cuffs, and curses not a few. 

“ Hould your noise, all of ’ee,” said Michael, “ and you shall 
have money all round ! ” 

He drew some coppers from his pocket and flung them ashore, 
and in a moment the urchins were down in the mud struggling 
and searching for them, except the boy who had drawn the hat 
to land, and him M chael held in a firm grip while he made him 
relate minutely how and where he had found his prize. 

“ Do you often find hats floating about here ? ” he asked. 

“ Old ones thrown away, but not good ones like that, ’cept 
when folks is drowned — we finds ’em then 1 ” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


189 


MichaePs heart fell again. 

•‘Where do the Lord Mayor live, my son? Can ’ee tell 
me?” 

“ At the Mansion House. Things in the river don’t belong to 
he.” 

Here a shout arose from the shore, and the boys, who had 
picked up all the pence, made a rush towards some large object 
wliich, now appearing, now disappearing, came rolling onwards 
with the rising tide. 

“I do believe ’tis a man drowned !’^ cried the boy with eager 
delight, whom Michael was still holding. “Let go of me — let 
go, I say !” 

And, tearing his rags from Michael’s grasp, he rushed away 
after his companions. Again and again they dashed into the 
river knee-deep, regardless of wet or cold or danger, as, with 
shouts and eager eyes and outstretched hands, they strove to 
reach the dimly-seen object which ever eluded their grasp. 

Meanwhile Michael, with a misgiving heart and thoughts full 
of black fears, had brought his boat near the helpless drowned 
creature which floated now on, now under the tide. It was 
curious to see how the rolling waves gave to its dead helplessness 
a kind of life as they carried it swiftly away from the many 
attempts Michael made to seize it. The boys on the shore 
watched him with angry eagerness and hungry cries for a share 
in the booty. And then with great a shout, as at last he clutched 
with his boat-hook and dragged it from the water — 

“ Why, it’s only a dog !” they cried with a laugh of fierce dis- 
appointment. 

Yes, it was only a dog. It was the noble mastiflf Lion, with 
a bullet through his brain. 

****** 

“ I am sorry I can’t help you,” said the magistrate to Michael. 
“The watchman informs me that a press-gang was out last night, 
impressing sailors ; so perhaps your friends have been carried off 
to the fleet at Sheerness.” 

“ Is that the law ? Can ’em do such things as impress a 
gentleman and a pilot who’s cap’n of his aun boat ?” asked 
Michael 

“ If a gentleman chooses to disguise himself as a sailor, he 
must take the consequences of his folly He’ll prove his iden- 
tity and free himself in time no doubt. As for the pilot, they’ll 


190 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


keep him. His Majesty's Fleet must be manned, and it is 
greatly in want of seamen. Most likely a pilot will be useful as 
they go down Channel, and there’s just a chance of their setting 
him ashore at Portsmouth or Falmouth or somewhere. As a 
rule, press-gangs leave pilots unmolested — unless they want 
them,” added che magistrate blandly. 

Angry to his very soul, Michael turned away, feeling sick at 
heart, seeing plainly that no help could be given him against 
cruel laws and worse customs. The uncertainty of his uncle’s 
and Harold’s fate had tilled him with a great heart-ache. It was 
almost a relief to think of them as impressed and not drowned, 
as he had feared. Perhaps the hat had fallen into the river in 
the fight — for there had been a tight, he felt sure — and doubtless 
poor liion had lost his life in the battle defending his master. 

‘‘ They needn’t have killed the gentleman’s dog ! ” he said 
angrily to the magistrate. 

“ Ah, a savage animal no doubt ! ” returned the gentleman. 
“ A press-cang would be sure to make short work of him. Now, 
my man, as you are a sailor yourself, I would advise you to go 
home unless you wish to serve in his Majesty’s Fleet. Press- 
gangs are about every night, and seamen are greatly wanted.” 

I’d wrastle the whole lot for a new hat if I had ’em in Corn- 
wall ! ” said Michael savagely. ‘‘ Ah, and I’d win too ! I 
reckon they’d understand a Cornish hug afore the wrastling was 
over ! ” 

There was a laugh, a call for some drunkard, who appeared 
between two constables with straws in his hair and face streaked 
with mud and battered with bruises, and Michael found himself 
set aside as a case that was done with. 

Sorrowfully he went back to the Curlew^ revolving many 
schemes in his mind, which fell to pieces as useless even as he 
built them up. Foremost was the hope that the Fleet, which 
had sailed that morning from Sheerness, might, after availing 
itself of Daniel’s services, set him ashore at Falmouth. 

As for J oe, his was a hopeless case ; no admiral on the surface 
of the sea, having once got hold of such a boy, would let him go 
again. But there was comfort in the thought that Joe was a 
youngster who always fell on his feet and made friends whereso- 
ever he went. So finally the darkest thoughts in Michael’s mind 
revolved round Harold’s fate, and he examined the hat he had 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


191 


lent him with careful wistful scrutiny, as if within its river-soil- 
ed lining he hoped to find a solution of his doubts. 

“ It’s a fust-rate hat still,” said Michael to himself ; “ and a 
man wouldn’t lose a good hat like that while he could keep his 
head above waetur to wear it. A drowned man don’t want a 
hat ! ” 

Giving his thought words doubled the horror of it, and he 
thrust the hat out of his sight with a sickly sort of forced laugh 
which made his lips grow white. 

“ There — why did I lend him my toggery ? A lawyer or bar- 
rister, as he caals hisself, didn’t ought to play-act to be a sailor. 
The young lady would never forgive me. I wouldn’t look her in 
the eyes — no, not to be made a lord to-morrow. It’s a comfort I 
don’t know where she be, so I can’t go to her with bad news. It 
will travel quick enough to her if it be bad, and it will do an ill 
work. I’m ’most afeard her wits be shaken a’ready. Well, she 
sha’n’t hear nothing cruel from me. I’ll hoist sail and away, as 
thic white-faced man advised.” 

So in an hour’s time the little Curlew, with her white wings 
spread, was flying down the river seeking her true home on the 
sea. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

“ Welcome home, my dear ! ” said Mr. Yicat, with the playful 
affection of a bear, as he embraced his frightened wife. “ And 
how has our invalid borne her long journey ? ” he added, turning 
to Estrild with a clumsy attempt at solicitude. 

“She has borne it wonderfully well,” said Mrs. Yicat, answer- 
ing for her. “ She was quite eager to get to London.” 

“That flatters me,” returned Mr. Yicat, with a smile that 
made him hateful. “ It gratifies me as a parent — an uncle, I 
mean — to know that a dear niece was anxious to find herself be- 
neath my roof — a hospitable, kindly roof, I may safely say.’' 

“No, you can’t say anything of the kind — not with truth,'’ 
said a sudden voice in a snappy manner. 

Turning with some slight amazement, Estrild saw a dumpy 
young woman with a plain countenance, redeemed by large bright 
eyes and a mass of tow-coloured hair piled on the top of her head. 


192 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ I am sure you are very tired,” she said, changing her tone to 
one of kindness ; so I have had a good lire lighted in the back- 
parlour, where you can have your tea all to yourself. I know 
yoidll like tliat best/’ 

“ My dear Carrier,” expostulated Mr. Vicat, “ why isolate Es- 
trild from the bosom of her family ? A social meal taken in the 
midst of her relatives ” 

“ Do be quiet, father !” returned the dutiful Carrie, in her 
most disrespectful voice. “ And go to the bosom of your family 
yourself ; they are all waiting for you in there” — pointing to an 
aggressive looking door carved all over with knobs — “ and shak- 
ing in their shoes — with delight of course — at the idea of your 
coming. jSTow, Miss Carbonellis, please, let me pilot you this 
way. Father would keep us in the passage all night if we chose 
to stay to listen to him.” 

Astonished at the young lady’s queer manners, Estrild never- 
theless followed her not unwillingly, the thought of being spared 
the ordeal of facing all the Yicat family being a relief indeed. 

In a small room, not unpleasant, though its single window 
looked out on a narrow black and ragged bit of ground, supposed 
to be a garden, Estrild found a bright fire burning and a round 
table spread with tea and cakes. A little kettle was singing on 
the hob; there was a sort of kindly welcome in the sound, a 
touch of home which stirred the heart of the tired girl as she 
flung herself into a seat and looked up into her new cousin’s face 
with great wistful eyes. 

“ You must have a cup of tea at once,” observed that young 
lady ; and, grasping the kettle, she filled the tea-pot with an 
adroit hand. 

A delicious fragrance rose instantly into the air, soothing the 
senses and yet bracing the nerves. 

Tea was a guinea a pound in those days, but it was worth the 
money. To what region of the earth that herb of price has now 
retired no one knows. 

“I must say,” continued Miss Carrie Yicat, and she plied 
Estrild with her fragrant tea and delicious cake, “ we are about 
the queerest lot in London. I may as well tell you so at once 
as let you find it out for yourself. Father is simply odious — 
there is no other word for him — and poor mother, though she is 
good, is a simpleton. I dare say it is wicked to say such things ; 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


193 


but I have a horrid propensity for speaking the truth, so I am 
obliged to say them.” 

“ Why not be contented with speaking the truth only to your- 
self?” asked Estrild, half amused, half repelled by the girFs 
coarse frankness. 

There — I expected some such slap in the face as that !” ex- 
claimed Carrie, as a bright blush illumined her plain visage. ‘‘ I 
know it is uncharitable, or worse — bad taste — to expose the 
defects of one’s family ; but you are going to live amongst us — 
that’s why I am outspoken to you. I don’t proclaim the 
truth upon the housetops, mind you ; and many a time when 
we do entertain strangers — which isn’t often — I listen to father 
telling heaps of pompous, arrogant fibs, and I never say a word 
to contradict him. I own I do fly at him afterwards, because 
by that time I have got so burning hot that I feel I should blaze 
up if I didn’t speak.” 

“ I am not surprised at that,” said Estrild. “ I know your 
father a little.” 

“ Let me give you one word of warning,” resumed Carrie — 

never allow yourself to be afraid of him. Everybody in the 
house lives in terror of him except myself, and the consequence 
is that he sets his feet down on every one’s countenance but 
mine. He leaves me in peace, because I have a temper ten 
times worse than his own.” 

“ I hope that is not true. You strike me as being good and 
kind,” said Estrild. 

No ; I am only vulgarly frank. There is no one good in our 
family except my step-brother — your real cousin, you know — and 
perhaps he wouldn’t be good if he wasn’t dying.” 

She checked herself hastily, and sudden tears filled her bright 
eyes. Then she went over to the window and looked out upon 
the bleak little garden. 

“ How queer it must seem to you,” she said, “ to see such a 
dirty scrap of ground as this, and hear us talk of back-parlours 
and underground kitchens and all the horrors of a third-rate Lon- 
don house ! ” 

The trenjor in her voice showed that she was saying this 
merely to cover her emotion, and Estrild, with thoughts of 
Tristram lying heavy on her heart, found it hard to answer care- 
lessly — 

“ Oh, I fancy this must be rather a comfortable house f * 

M 


194 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ Is it ? returned Miss Yicat drily. “ You’ll soon alter that 
opinion ; and you ought not to be here at all — you who are a 
grand heiress, and have a splendid mansion, and ” 

But here she stopped suddenly, and bit her lips with vexation 
at her folly, for Estrild had grown white and was stretching out 
her hands towards her as if imploring silenca 

“ You forget,” she said, “ what makes me an heiress.” 

“ Yes — for a moment I forgot. And I wish I could forget 
sometimes to be vulgar, but I can’t. There is one comfort — I 
am always ashamed of myself after I have shown my cloven 
foot.” 

“ I don’t perceive any vulgarity in what you said,” observed 
Estrild kindly. 

“ Oh don’t you 1 Can you not see that I was a little envious 
of you, and angry at my own ugliness, and with our hideous home, 
and, in fact, with eyery thing ? ” 

“ Envious of me ? ” — and Estrild spoke with astonishment, for 
she felt herself forlorn, unhappy, stricken by an abnormal and 
gloomy fate. 

“ Envious of you ? ” echoed Carrie. “ I should think so — and 
good cause too. I am ugly and you are beautiful ; I am poor and 
you are rich. I belong to a vulgar, ill-natured family, and you 
are descended from an ancient high-born race with all sorts of 
noble traditions.” 

“ No — sorrowful ones that do us harm,” interrupted Estrild. 

“ But you could let them do you good if you liked,” resumed 
this odd girl, “ while our vulgar traditions are an unmitigated 
evil ; they knock all poetry out of us, they roll us in the mud 
and keep us there. If fact, your position is a romantic one and 
mine is odiously commonplace. And I am dying to be roman- 
tic — that’s the truth ! ” 

She laughed, and Estrild also laughed a little ; and the laugh 
did them both good. It seemed to give Carrie Yicat more 
courage ; she quitted the window and seated herself on alow 
stool at Estrild’s feet. 

“ Tell me the truth,” she said. “ Do you think me dreadfully 
ugly ? ” 

“ I have not thought about your looks,” returned Estrild 
evasively. 

“Well, please consider them now, and speak candidly.” 

“ If I do that, I must tell you that I perceive you think too 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


195 


much about yourself and your misfortunes. Would it not be 
wiser and happier to think of other things ? 

“ It certainly would be, both for you and me,’' said Carrie, 
with her usual frankness. “ But then one is so dreadfully in- 
teresting to oneself that it is almost impossible not to feel that 
one is half the world, and all the house, with the little back-yard 
and the cobwebs thrown in.” 

“ And who is the other half of the world ? ” asked Estrild, 

** Why, the man one likes, to be sure ? There — now I have 
let the cat out of the bag ! And isn’t it hard for a girl to be in 
love and know she is ugly and her hair is the colour of a worn- 
out door-mat, and her relations have turned-up noses, with man- 
ners to match 1 Oh, dear, I am an unfortunate girl ! ” 

“ That is only because you think so,” said Estrild. “ How 
can you be unfortunate if you are loved ? ” 

Somehow her own words struck upon her heart, and she 
blushed vividly. Carrie Vicat looked at her with eyes full of 
light and life. 

“ Well, you are loved too so I have heard ; and yet you think 
yourself very unhappy. That has been told me also, and I have 
wondered at it. We always wonder at other people’s follies, I 
suppose, and never see our own. Are you really unhappy ? ” 

“ I fear I am,” said Estrild ; and the colour rose high into her 
face. “ I have thoughts and feelings respecting my life and 
duty which you cannot understand.” 

“ Well, if I were in your place, I should soon send them pack- 
ing. Now I would give worlds to change fates with you ; but you 
would not change with me.” 

“No, I own I would not.” 

“ That’s conclusive,” resumed Carrie, rising abruptly from her 
low seat. “ That proves the value of beauty, and it answers my 
question as to what you thought of my face.” 

“ But you talk away all thoughts of your face,” Estrild expos- 
tulated. “ Moreover, it had nothing to do with my reply to 
your foolish questions. No one would give up his or her identi- 
ty, with all memories, family traditions, and the thousand thou- 
sand feelings woven round our hearts, which are the very fibre of 
our being.” 

“ No — not if all those things make us unhappy ?” asked Carrie, 
with green lights dancing in her eyes. 

“ No, certainly not ; they make our life.” 


196 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


“ And a precious uncomfortable life too they make for some of 
us/’ resumed Carrie. Nevertheless you speak truth, and you 
have done me good.” 

Good ! Estrild blushed again as the word struck her ears. 
Who was receiving good? Was it possible that this odd, ugly 
girl was doing her good, undeniably vulgar though she was ? 

Here Carrie took up the tea-pot and shook it to and fro 
anxiously. 

‘‘ I think there is another cup in it,” she said “Will you 
have it 1 ” 

“No, thank you.” 

Then I’ll have it myself. I never throw away good tea ; and 
I have talked my throat dry too.” 

She drank her tea to the dregs, and then with a twist of her 
hand spun the cup round two or three times, and peered into it 
with quite serious eyes. 

“ I am going to tell my fortune,” she said. “ It always lies 
close at hand in the cup one brews for oneself. Oh, I see it all 
here, and I accept it all cheerfully 1 The turned-up noses, the 
manners like a penny pocket-handkerchief, with a prize-fighter’s 
countenance on it in blood-red suggestive ink, and the door-mat 
hair, and the common-place lover, who wears ghastly grand 
waistcoats, with a good heart, and the odious father, whose 
creaking boots make tight-ropes of one’s nerves for him to dance 
on, and the ugly little brothers and sisters, who squeak and 
squeal continually. Poor little mortals, I am very fond of them 
— they are all here in my cup of tea, which I drink daily ! ” 

“You see a great deal in a few tea-leaves,” observed Estrild. 

“ Oh, there’s more yet ! Here’s a flower in the background — 

that’s you ; there’s another flower fading in darkness — that’s 

Well, you’ll see who that is to-morrow. And here's a letter with 
hasty news.” 

“ How do you know it is hasty interposed Estrild. 

“ The letter has wings,” returned Carrie gravely — “ that is a 
sure sign that it is of a most hasty character ; and I am afraid it 
is bad news — there’s a black spot in the middle of the letter. 
And — oh, dear — I am sure Tom has got into trouble ! Here’s a 
flght at the bottom of the cup ; and after that he goes nearly 
l ound the world — such a long, long voyage 1 Bless me, I don’t 
like my fortune at all ; there’s something the matter with the 
tea this evening 1 ” She looked at Estrild with a sort of comical 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


197 


I vexation, half real, half assumed ; then a sudden change came 
' over her face, clearing away the shadow. I forgot it was your 
cup,^^ she said ; “ that accounts for it. There’s some friend of 
yours eoing to sea, and I inadvertently dressed him in Tom’s 
waistcoat. Our fates have got mixed, you see.” 

“ I see that you are a poor fortune-teller,” returned Estrild. 
“ A friend of mine has just come back from a voyage, but he is 
certainly not going to sea again.” 

And he hasn’t been fighting of late 1 ” 

‘‘No, decidedly not.” 

“ Then it’s Tom ; and I shall let him know in strong language 
what I think of his behaviour.” 

“ Then I shall tell him that you allow your imagination to run 
away with your wits.” 

“ You ! ” exclaimed Carrie, setting down her divining-cup, and 
staring at Estrild with her bright eyes full of laughing amaze- 
ment. “Will you presume to say such a thing ?” 

“Yes ; why not? ” 

“Now there’s a question ! And your own imagination is the 
gloomiest and fastest steed that ever ran away with a poor 
creature into the wilderness My imagination amuses me, but 
yours tears you to pieces. I beg your pardon — I didn’t mean to 
hurt you ; ” and, rushing over to Estrild, she took her hands 
down from her face and kissed her. “ I couldn’t help it,” she 
said, almost with tears. “ I have heard all about you from my 
brother ; he is half a Carbonellis, you know, and your ideas seem 
so strange to me. Things in London are so real — such decided 

bricks and mortar and dirt — that one can’t comprehend 

There — I am tiring you to death. Come up to your room at once, 
and I promise you shall not hear another word from me to-night, 
or meet a single turn-up nose till to-morrow.” 

“ I shall be glad to go to my room ; but I want to write a 
letter, and — and I should like to send it to the post at once if I 
could.” 

“ Tom shall take it for you,” said Carrie hurriedly. “ You 
may always trust him ; but please don’t trust any one else. 
Father would post your letters in his own pocket, and pretend 
he had forgotten them ; and all the others would hand every 
letter to him if ordered to. There’s no one dares be disobedient 
in the house except me.” 

“ Your father will find that I shall not submit’ to tyranny or 


198 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


to interference of any kind/^ Estrild answered, her face flushing 
as she spoke. 

“ That’s right ; and there’s always Tom and me in the back- 
ground to help you.’’ 

‘‘ And not your brother — my cousin ? ” asked Estrild. 

There was no answer. Carrie stooped and picked up a hand- 
kerchief which had fallen to the floor, and rose with a little pink 
flush on her face. Her ugliness seemed to have worn ofl* — she 
looked almost pretty. 

‘‘ The state of Denmark is very rotten,” she said, pulling the 
handkerchief between her fingers ; “ and there are things in 
heaven and earth beyond our philosophy ; but the strangest of 
all, to my mind, is the fact that a Carbonellis was induced to 
marry a Vicat.” 

Estrild smiled. 

“ I cannot tell what the inducement was,” she rejoined ; “ but 
my aunt ran away with Mr. Yicat.” 

“ Ran away with father ! ” exclaimed Carrie breathlessly. 
“ How she must have repented ! Is it possible that any romance 
could ever shed what poets call ‘ a halo ’ round father ? ” 

“ People in love are blind,” said Estrild. 

“ What a mercy that we are all such bats when we are young I 
That is why I never see Tom’s waistcoats, though they stare me 
in the face with the loudest of patterns.” 

‘‘ Please let me write my letter in peace,” remonstrated Estrild, 
looking up from the paper. 

“ Mind you make it nice and kind and loving, so that the 
other half of your world may be glad to have it.” 

Estrild wrote rapidly, the colour deepening on her cheeks, 
her hand trembling slightly. It was not the sort of letter she 
would have deemed it possible to write when she was at Lan- 
garth, for it spoke of no parting, but of the joy of union, the 
happiness of meeting again, the bitterness of her regret that at 
Salisbury she had given no sign of her presence, and the anguish 
of the repentance after she had seen the coach depart and knew 
she had thrown joy away. 

“ Come to me at once, Harold,” she wrote, in conclusion ; “ for 
until I see your face — until I hear your voice again — I shall 
have no peace. I know I have been hard, gloomy, obstinate ; 
but I have also been very ill, and I think you will forgive me 
when you see how changed I am. Some feelings of mine have 


FROM THE OTUER SIDE. 


199 


changed too. Langarth was full of death and gloom and dark 
fancies ; London is full of life, reality, and labour, and the pas- 
sionate energy of its ceaseless toil quickens my heart with hope. 
I feel as though happiness were drawing very near to me — am I 
not in the same city with you ? Come to me, Harold — come 
quickly, for I weary for you more than I can say, and I tremble 
with the fear of some new misfortune that will separate us 
again.” 

She laid down her pen with a quiver on her lips, and with 
piteous eyes looked up at Carrie’s beaming face. 

“ If we fling something precious from us in mistake,” she said, 
“ can we have it again for the asking ? — can we gather it up 
again when we will ? ” 

“ Not often,” returned Carrie. “ Opportunities had always 
better be laid hold of at the right time, for they are very slippery 
eels, and when once out of our grasp they ain’t easy to catch 
again. There — that’s a vulgar simile ; but I always talk like a 
fish- woman or other creatures of that kind.” 

“You are not very encouraging,” said Estrild, leaning her 
head on her hand ; “ and somehow I need a cheerful word, for I 
have such odd thoughts.” 

“ But you are used to them,” said Carrie, with a gleam in her 
eyes. “ The Carbonellises are romantic, and have not good, use- 
ful, healthy, housemaid kind of thoughts as they ought to have.” 

“ Have people of that sort all the sense in the world T asked 
Estrild. “ Are there no poetry, no prophecy, no mysteries of 
science for higher minds 1 ” 

“You are walking over me ; please don’t trample me down,” 
pleaded Carrie laughingly ; “ and don’t ask of me more than I 
can give. You have seen my father and mother — what can you 
expect of me but the thoroughly commonplace ? Now let us be 
practical ; perhaps there is something in your odd thoughts after 
all, so let’s hear them. Is it about your letter ? ” 

“Yes ; I have a strange fancy that it will never reach Har- 
old’s hands.” 

“ Then I can knock that fancy down at once, for, instead of 
posting it, Tom shall carry it to him himself.” 

“ Oh, can he do me that kindness ? ” cried Estrild. “ Are you 
sure he will go ? ” 

Carrie looked up in amazement 

“ Sure he will go ? ” she repeated. “ Is it likely he will refuse 


200 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


to do anything I ask him ? He comes here every evening at j 
half-past nine, and stays till half-past ten ; and to-night he will j 
have to forego his snug little tete-a-tete with me in this back-par- j 
lour, and go — where is it?” — taking up the letter — “oh, to the i 
Temple 1 Well, that is not far, and he will be able to bring you ' 
back the answer before you are asleep.” 

“ Oh, will he do that ? How glad, how happy I shall be if he 
can!” 

“ He will do it, and in quick time too ; and, since he will be 
here in five minutes ” 

“ I will go to my room instantly,” interposed Estrild, gather- 
ing up her shawls in haste. “ You will tell him to take great 
care of the answer to my letter ? ” 

In her own room Estrild listened for Tom’s knock, then again 
for his retreating footstep — oh, how long Carrie had kept him ! — 
and with the loud closing of the door her heart trembled, and 
her fears and hopes fevered every throbbing vein. 

To make the slow minutes pass more quickly she forced occu- 
pation on herself. She strove to read, but knew not what the 
book was ; its words had no meaning, and she was ever looking 
up from the page listening for a coming step. 

At last it came, and she heard hesitation in Carrie’s footfall, 
heard her pause at the door as though unwilling to enter, and 
felt a chill of fear rush over her like a cold wind. 

“ Come in !” she cried, with trembling voice. “ I have not 
tried to sleep.” 

Carrie came to her bedside. With one swift glance she saw 
there was no letter in her hand. 

“ Is he ill ?” she said, as her face grew very white. 

“JSTo — do not be frightened — it is only that he is not at his 
chambers. He left them the same evening that he arrived from 
some journey. That was many days ago and he has not return- 
ed yet. There — that’s all. Tom gave your letter to the woman 
who looks after his rooms, and she put it on his table, where he 
would be sure to see it at once.” 

“ But where is he gone ?” cried Estrild passionately. “ Has 
he left no word to say !’^ 

“Nothing but this;” and Carrie unfolded a scrap of paper 
that she was hiding in her hand, and laid it before Estrild’s eyes. 

Tom brought it, thinking it would satisfy your mind a little to 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


201 


see by Mr. Olveras own words that there is no cause for anxiety 
in his absense.^’ 

‘‘ No cause !’’ — and Estrild looked up with dilating eyes from 
the paper that shook in her hand. “ Oh, he is gone again on a 
mad quest — he is gone again to risk his life to bring me peace ! 
But I care only for him now. Oh, Harold, come back to me, 
and I will forget Tristram and father and mother and the whole 
world only to have your arms around me once again 

‘‘ He can’t hear you,” said Carrie pitilessly. “ Why didn’t 
you say that to him when you had the chance ? The wisest thing 
you can do now is to go to sleep ; and when you awake, make up 
your mind to turn over a new leaf — quite an unromantic, com- 
monplace leaf — and you’ll find ” 

But Carrie stopped, for Estrild had turned her face to the 
wall and was weeping bitterly. 


CHAPTER XXIX- 

Carrie had recommended a trial of the commonplace ; and 
certainly in hei home there was every chance of Estrild’s essay- 
ing the lesson in its utmost hardness and bareness. 

The daily life to which she awoke on the first bitter morning 
of her sojourn was a constant repetition of the same dismal 
dreariness ; for the household was Philistine to the core, unre- 
deemed by a single vivifying grace. There was favouritism, 
there was injustice, there were tale-bearing and tyranny and fear ; 
and the whole made up a seething mass of petty miseries which 
rasped the nerves and exasperated the smooth temper of the un- 
happy girl whose life hitherto had been full of beauty, harmony, 
and love. 

One voice, one hand only ever seemed able to draw order out 
of chaos and peace from confusion. Carrie was sometimes 
ubiquitous — defending her mother in that clear incisive voice 
which quenched Mr. Vicat’s, or quelling disturbance with a 
soothing hand, or only commanding obedience where obedience 
was due. 

Fighting brothers and snapping sisters alike held their peace 
when Carrie showed them she was in earnest. But for her, life 


202 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


would have been unendurable to Estrild in this household of 
hideous realities. 

Three days passed before she saw the eldest son of the family 
— the only one who was truly her cousin. He was ill and con- 
fined to his room — so Mr. Yicat informed her in the pompous 
diction peculiar to him — 

“ Deeply regretting, I assure you, my dear, that he is obliged 
to postpone the pleasure of meeting you.^’ 

Mrs. Yicat said nothing ; she was so completely quenched and 
subdued in the presence of her husband that at times she might 
have been taken for a dummy, sitting helplessly in a chair, and 
ready to fall out of place at a touch. When Carrie propped her 
up, she would show some small sign of life — quiekly departing 
from her when left again to her own defence. 

Estrild looked forward to a meeting with her cousin with some 
hope. He was one of her own race, and she fancied she could 
find help and sympathy in his companionship. She was doomed 
to a strange disappointment. 

‘‘ Gilbert is better ; he will see you to-day,” Mr. Yicat had 
said in the morning at breakfast, before departing on his daily 
visit to his office. “ Carrie shall take you to him, my dear; he 
cannot leave his room yet. Carrie, you hear me ? You wiil take 
your cousin to Gilbert’s room at three o’clock.” 

“ Oh, I hear you,” responded Carrie ; “ but I decline the office ! 
I am going out shopping with mother this afternoon.” 

Mr. Yicat looked at his refractory females with eyes that 
blazed, while his head and face seemed to swell visibly with rage 
— yet he kept silent. In another moment however an occasion 
presented itself for giving vent to the inward fire that consumed 
him. One of his small boys, in his effort not to feel frightened, 
nearly choked himself ; and Mr. Yicat instantly seized him, and 
also the child next him, who had uttered a yell of. fear, and car- 
ried them both off beneath his arms like an ogre. Shrieks and 
sounds of blows followed that turned Estrild faint with horror. 
She rose hurriedly as if to fly ; but Carrie clutched he dress, and 
held her in her chair. 

“ Show no cowardice,” she whispered ; “it is what he is look- 
ing for in you.” 

Estrild accepted the warning, and held herself calmly. And 
indeed she was no coward ; what she felt was indignation and 
contempt from the tyrant, and pity for his victims. 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


203 


“ I beg your pardon, Estrild ! said Mr. Yicat, as he returned 
flushed and with his face scratched. “ But discipline is a neces- 
sity; and Mrs. Vicat is quite incapable of. keeping her children 
in order ; so I am compelled sometimes to be a little severe. 

Estrild made no reply ; she only pushed her plate aside with 
her meagre breakfast untouched, and, rising, she went to the 
window, and looked out on the dreary garden in the square with 
a bitter sigh for Langarth, and a cry in her heart for Harold. 

“ 1 have locked those lads in the coal-cellar,^^ continued Mr. 
Yicat, addressing his wife, “ and they are to have no dinner.” * 

“Yery well, my dear,” said Mrs. Yicat, heaving a meek sigh. 

“Then you had better see to their supper and your own, 
father, when you come back,” observed Carrie coolly. 

“ I am not i i the habit of seeing to the children's supper or 
my own,” returned Mr. Yicat, in his most pompous manner. 

“ Perhaps you’ll break through that habit to-night,” responded 
his daughter, with a little malicious laugh. “People can’t 
always be waited upon ; they have to look after themselves now 
and then.” 

Mr. Yicat coughed, and remarked, in a more subdued tone, 
that it was time he should go to the office. 

“ And I hope, Estrild, you will not disappoint your cousin of 
seeing you to-day, although your aunt and Carrie will not be 
with you.” 

“I will see him,” said Estrild shortly, without turning her 
head from the window. 

By this means however she did not escape a parting salutation 
from her host, who raised his hat in passing the house and gave 
her one of his odious smiles. She drew back with feelings at 
her heart which had never before tormented it — repulsion, defi- 
ance, contempt were new emotions unknown to her in the dear 
old times when Tristram lived and Langarth was full of love and 
life and happiness. Now it was desolate, dead, and empty, and 
her own home was this sordid and dreadful house. Harold too 
was gone she knew not whither, and no sign, no word from him 
reached her to bring a gleam of comfort to her sad forlornness. 
And this was her own fault. In the first cruelty and gloom of her 
grief she had shrunk from his love, she had fled from his presence ; 
and, even when Fate flung them together unsought by herself, 
and without the reproach of a broken promise she might have 
looked into his face and held his hand in hers, she would not. 


204 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


She had let him go in blank silence, and never from her lips had 
he heard one word of thanks, although he had risked his life to 
bring her peace. Truly she was not undeserving of the pain and 
suffering laid upon her now. 

“ Surely, cried Carrie’s voice, breaking in upon her reverie 
with a laugh, “ you are not crying for those small urchins'? If 
they did not deserve a whipping to-day, they will to-morrow, 
when they won’t get it. And I have planned a splendid revenge 
on father. Mother and Tom and I are going to the play to- 
night. You had better come with us.” 

“ Oh, no, no !” said Estrild, shrinking away with a glance at 
her deep mourning. 

Carrie did not expostulate. 

‘‘At least you will not see Gilbert to-day?” she said. “I 
advise you to put that visit off till — till a more convenient sea- 
son. ” 

“No ; I.should like to see him,” Estrild answered. 

“ ‘ Wilful woman must have her own way,’” quoted Carrie. 
“ There is one comfort — he may change his mind, and refuse to 
see you.” 

“I don’t perceive why that rudeness on his part should 
bring you comfort,” said Mrs. Yicat. “ He is queer enough, 
certainly ; but I hope he is not going to be as queer as usual to- 
day. Mr. Yicat said he was better.” 

“ He’ll never be better,” returned Carrie shortly. Then she 
turned the subject abruptly. Y^ell, mother, you will allow 
there is comfort in the fact that Tom came back yesterday, and 
that he has accomplished the business intrusted to him so satis- 
factorily that his master has given him a holiday ?” 

“Say his ‘employer’ my dear; 1 don’t like like the word 
‘ master.’ ” 

“ Say a fiddlestick wlien the thing is a broom ! ” retorted 
Carrie. “ All the mischief in the world is done by people not 
speaking the truth to themselves and to each other. Mr. Single- 
ton employs Tom, pays him, and can discharge him — a man who 
does that is a master. In another twenty years, I dare say, as 
the world grows so fond of shams, he wid be an employer, and 
his workmen or clerks will be employes^ or some such ridiculous 
name ; but meanwhile I call Tom what he is — a clerk — and a 
good one toa Estrild, now he is home again, I hope he will 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


.205 


bring you news this evening ; he promised me he would call in 
the Temple to inquire for Mr. Olver.’^ 

Estrild flushed painfully, then grew pale ; she gave no answer 
to. Carrie beyond a look of thanks. 

“ I wish, my dear,^^ observed Mrs. Vicat, “ that you would not 
make use of Tom as a messenger between Estrild and a young 
man with whom her uncle declines to continue an acquaintance. 
It will lead to great unpleasantness, and Tom will be forbidden 
the house.’' 

“ Oh, I hope not !” Estrild cried. ‘‘ Carrie, you must not suf- 
fer on my account.” 

“ People suflfer just what they choose to suflTer,” returned Car- 
rie sententiously. “ Some like to be martyrs, and some don’t. I 
am among the last. Nobody is going to run needles into my 
flesh, I assure you — least of all, needles in such a clumsy hand as 
father’s. Now, children, pack, every one of you, and be off to 
school at once ! ” 

“ Must Charlie and Fred come too ? Will you let them out of 
the cellar ? ” piped two or three voices at once. 

“ Don’t ask questions. They are too black by this time to go 
to school.” 

“ Father put the key of the cellar in his pocket,” said one boy 
triumphantly ; “and I’ve got Fred’s marbles, and shall keep ’em 
all day now.” 

“ You’ll give them up to me,” said Carrie, seizing the urchin 
with a vigorous hand, while she emptied his pockets with the 
other. “ Now here’s your hat — tramp at once, and don’t cry, 
or, instead of joining Fred in the cellar, you’ll be put down the 
sink in the back-kitchen.” 

A clatter of boots, a discordant chorus of voices, a scuffle in 
the passage, and then a heavy slam of the front door — and after 
this a lull of silence. Then Carrie returned from the struggle 
flushed, but with eyes full of fun and glee. 

“ How we shall enjoy ourselves to-day I ” she cried breathless- 

ly- 

“ Shall we ? ” said her mother, with a great sigh. “The kitch- 
en fire is .nearly out by this time for want of coal.” 

“ I am delighted to hear it ; things will be so comfortable for 
father in the evening when he comes home ! ” 

“We must send for the blacksmith and get the lock off, I sup- 


206 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


pose,” rejoined Mrs. Yicat, ignoring this remark with a scared 
look in her eyes. 

“ No, mother ; we won’t do anything of the kind. We’ll dine 
out with Tom, and give the cook a holiday till ten p.m ; ” and, 
turning a deaf ear to all expostulation, Carrie ran off laughing. 

Mrs. Vicat, on the verge of tears, turned to Estrild. 

“ Mr. Yicat is so savage if kept waiting for dinner,” she said. 
“ I’m sure I don’t know what will happen if he gets nothing to 
eat till past ten o’clock. And the boys too will be half dead of 
cold and hunger and darkness by that time.” 

Here a shout arose from outside the house, and Mrs. Yicat 
roused herself from her apathy, and drew near the window to 
ascertain the cause for the shrill hurrahs that pierced the a r, 

A crowd of urchins and loafers stood on the pavement, watch- 
ing with immense glee the drawing up by ropes through the 
cellar-opening of two very small blackened boys, whose faces, 
expanded now by laughter, were begrimed with dirt and tears. 

“ That’s just like Carrie,”' exclaimed Mrs. Yicat — “ exposing 
us to the ridicule of the neighbourhood, and never Heeding ap- 
pearance in the least ! There — she is positively kissing those 
boys before everybody, and they both as black as sweeps ! And 
the dirty crowd cheering her, too ! What will Mr. Yicat say 1 
If this scene ever comes to his knowledge, I am sure I shall 
have cause to wish myself in heaven.” 


CHAPTER XXX 

Joe had scarcely uttered his words of warning ere the tramp 
of many feet followed him, ? n 1 Daniel and Harold found them- 
selves confronted by that most formidable and cruel tyranny of 
the times — a press-gang. 

The men composing it came forward with a rush, and, with an 
adroitness that showed they were well used to their vile work, 
they so surrounded their victims that escape was impossible, 

“ Resistance is useless, and will be punished severely ! ” cried 
the leader of the gang. “ As seamen, you know the service well 
enough to know that ; so you had better yield without making a 
fight of it,” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


207 


I “ This gentleman is not a seaman/' said Daniel ; “ he is a ban 
[ rister." 

“ He looks like one/' retorted the warrant-officer, with a laugh. 
“ I happen to know he is a deserter from his Majesty's ship the 
Billy-rough-un " 

“ You are mistaken,” observed Harold, stepping nearer to the 
lamp, and still holding his prisoner. “ I have no objection to 
give you my name and address.” 

A burst of laughter followed this proposition, and a man who 
had hitherto hung Lack pushed forward now to the light. 

“ You had better drop that game ! ” he said to Harold with an 
oath. “ I saw you to-day in a boat by the Temple stairs, and 
stopped you at once as the man I had been told to look out for.” 

‘‘Your eyes don’t see straight,” returned Daniel ; “ this is not 
the same man.” ■ 

“ If it isn’t him, it’s another, who will do as well,” retorted 
the petty-officer, with a short laugh. 

“ I tell you it’s the same ? ” cried the informer, whom Daniel 
and Harold had now recognized as the man whose boat had fol- 
lowed theirs from the Temple. “ Do you think I don’t know 
his toggery ? Where did you buy your hat, Billy Buffian 1 ” 

“ It was bought in a civiler place than you came from,” said 
Joe angrily. 

“Youngster, if you don’t want your head knocked off, you had 
better keep a civil tongue in it,” observed the captain of the 
gang. How, men, march with your prisoners ! ’' 

“ If you please, sir,” cried Trevel, struggling fiercely now in 
Harold’s grasp, “ I’ve been laid hold of by these men, who are 
smugglers, and dragged away from my decent, lodging and made 
to jine 'em by force ! I hope, sir, you’ll let me go — I'm no 
sailor.” 

“ So you are a d d set of smugglers, are you ? ” said the 

leader. “ Well, you won't make worse seamen for,, that. Let 
that fellow go — we don’t want him ; we’ll press the boy in- 
stead.” 

“ I don't let the man go,” said Harold, “ while there's life in 
me to hold him. It is your duty to take him prisoner. He is a 
seaman, and deserter from the Alert.^* 

A look passed between Trevel and the ruffian of the river, a 
touch on the palm suggested the passing of coin, and the in- 
former called out — 


208 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ Look here, captain — will you take the word of a smuggler to 
a lie ? That’s a decent chap he’s holding. I know him well 
enough — he gets his living on the river as a bargeman ; he’s ex- 
empt by the law.” 

Let the man go ; it’s you who are the deserter ! ” shouted the 
officer hoarsely to Harold. “ Lies pass with me.” 

‘‘ Take the word of that villain instead of mine at your peril ! ” 
exclaimed Harold. “ I repeat, he is a deserter from the Alert, 
and I have seized him because he is worse — he is an assassin ! 
Daniel Pascoe, who is a pilot — a man you have no right to touch, 
for he commands his own boat, the Curlew — will you give the 
same accdCint of this man that I do.” 

‘‘ Pilot be d d ! ” cried the sea-ruffian in answer. “ Take 

your hands off the man, or ” 

“ Hold on to him, Daniel,” said Harold quietly. 

Handcuff them both ! ” cried the officer. 

There was a sudden rush and a fierce struggle, in which all 
were carried forward down the narrow passage towards the river. 
During the onslaught of the men and the fight that followed, 
Harold nevei once relaxed his hold of Trevel ; he could therefore 
defend himself only with one hand ; but, in the darkness of that 
narrow place, friend mistook friend for foe, and blows were so 
indiscriminately given that he was not directly attacked, but 
only pushed forward with the rest to the shore. Here the stars 
and their gleam, which shone on the water, gave light enough to 
enable him to understand why Trevel had been uttering yell 
upon yell, and why also he had allowed himself to be borne 
along without resistance. Lion had fast hold of him by the leg, 
and it was only by allowing himself to be dragged onwards like 
a log that he saved his flesh from a fierce grip of those master- 
ful teeth. But now, in the light by the river, he shouted for 
help. 

“ Shoot the dog — shoot the dog — he’s killing the man ! ” cried 
the crimp, rushing forward pistol in hand. 

‘‘ Hold the man yourselves,” exclaimed Harold to the gang, 
'‘and I’ll call offm}^ dog ! He is not hurting the fellow. You 
may handcufl* me twice over, so you take him prisoner also.” 

His words were unheeded. Two or three pistols were levelled 
at Lion’s head ; but, as it was impossible to shoot him without 
wounding Trevel, the men who held them hesitated to fire. 
Meanwhile Harold and Daniel both struggled hotly to save the 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


209 


dog and yet retain the man for whose seizure they had risked 
their lives. But their captors were too strong for them ; knock- 
ed down, brutally belabored with blows, and their expostulations 
treated with contempt, they could but remain helpless spectators 
of the fray. 

‘‘ Shoot the brute shouted the leader of the press-gang again, 
with a tremendous oath ; and then, as he was not instantly 
obeyed, he drew forth his own pistol, and beside himself with 
rage, fired indiscriminately. 

As the report rang through the air, Trevel fell to the ground 
wounded, uttering a heavy groan ; but Lion, unhurt, still held 
him, and no one dared to drag liirn away, or attempt to shoot 
him in the face of TrevePs agonized cries not to fire. At a word 
from Harold the dog would have let eo his hold ; but, breathless 
from his long fight, exasperated, and burning still with the re- 
solve to hold Trevel at all hazards, he would not speak. In 
another instant he regretted his silence with fresh agony ; for 
the crimp, stealing up silently, kicked Lion with brutal force, 
and the dog, turning instantly, sprang on him without a sound. 

“Lion — let go T' Harold shouted ; but his command came too 
late. 

In the shock of the dog^s sudden onslaught, the crimp stepped 
backwards, slipped, and without a cry fell with a heavy splash 
into the river. At the same instant the crack of pistols sounded 
through the air, and Harold saw Lion stretched on the ground 
panting and bleeding. His heart bounded against his side as he 
beheld this sight, and the rush of anger and grief in his veins 
brought a smart to his eyes like the touch of fire ; he took no 
heed of the attempts made to rescue the crimp, who had sunk to 
rise no more ; but in the midst of the confusion, the noise of 
oaths and shouting, he felt the touch of Lion’s tongue on his 
manacled hand. 

Wounded and dying, the dog had crept to his master for the 
reward of a caress, believing he had done his duty. Then 
Harold stooped over him, and for one instant held him closely 
against his side ; the next moment one of the men who guarded 
him had put a bullet through Lion’s brain, and he fell dead with 
his master’s arm still around him. 

“ He’s out of pain,’' said the man, with a laugh, as he wiped 
his pistol 


210 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Another of the press-gang pushed the dog over with his foot, 
and then with one kick sent the body into the river. 

The gallant spirit was out of him — the life lived so well was 
gone ; and it was but the reward of valour, in the beginning of 
this century, to be wounded, to die, and to be flung into an un- 
known grave. 

* * * ♦ * * 

Harold had one intense satisfaction as the tender into which 
he and Daniel and the boy were thrust sailed down the Thames 
— he knew that the leader of the press gang had taken Trevel 
with (hern. 

The miseries of the voyage to Sheerness, and the horrors of the 
night in tlie stifling hold of the frigate which awaited them there, 
need not be told. In darkness and in irons Harold and his com- 
panions felt the heavings of the great ship as the wind filled her 
sails and she swung round like a living leviathan and dashed out 
to sea. 

“ Daniel, whither are we bound ? ” asked the young man in a 
low voice. 

“ The Lord knows, Mr. Olver 1 But I heard the men saying 
some’ut about convoying a fleet of merchantmen ; so I reckon 
India is the place.” 

“ Danit 1, I am sorry indeed I have led you into this mess.” 

“ There’s no need to fret, Mr. Olver. You and I needn’t go to 
India unless we’ve a mind to.” 

“ I know well enough they can’t make a sailor of me,” return- 
ed Harold ; “ and, if I can once get speech with a commissioned 
officer, I shall doubtless be listened to and set free ; but I am not 
going to leave you in the lurch, Daniel ; neither will I leave the 
ship while the man Trevel has breath in him and there is any 
hope of wringing the truth out of his black soul.” 

“You would not be leaving me in the lurch, Mr. Olver. I 
mean to go ashore at Falmouth — never you mind how I shall 
manage it. I am sartin sure of it — that’s all. So, wlien they 
bring us up afore the cap’en, don’t you trouble over me, but tell 
him plain out who you are, and demand to be put ashore at 
Portsmouth. But, as for you, my sonny boy ” — and Daniel turn- 
ed to poor Joe, who was sobbing audibly — “ I’m afeard you must 
take the press-money, and fight the French like a man.” 

“ Don’t grieve about him, Daniel ; I’ll look after him when you 
are gone.” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 2U 

“You, Mr. Olver ! Why, surely you don^t mean-^ 

“Yes ; I mean what I say^ Daniel. I don^t leave this ship 
while Trevel is in it.” i 

“ Mr. Olver, I reckon you’d better slaip ’pon that saying ;and, 
though planks be a hard bed, the sea is a good rocking-cradle, 
and the tired head finds a pillow wherever it rests. Good night 
to ’ee, sir ! ” 

And so Daniel slept, or seemed to sleep ; and in the silence 
that followed Harold’s harassed thoughts gradually grew calmer, 
till a dream of Langarth swept them into slumber with a vision 
of Estrild’s face leaning over him with eyes full of love. 

* * * * * 

It was a breezy morning ; the sun shone briglitly down from 
a blue sky on a blue sea, and the north wind which had cleared 
the air, and which was sending the gallant ship merrily down 
Channel had also cleared men’s minds of fog ; so that never was 
a man in better temper than was Captain Pierson, of H. M. S. 
Vigilant^ when the pressed men of the night before were brought 
before him. 

There was some twenty-five men, besides Harold and his two 
companions, and they were disposed of in a summary and suffi- 
cently good-humoured way, the seamen themselves yielding to 
necessity in dogged silence. 

They were brave men, and they fought for their country 
valiantly when called upon to give her their blood, though that 
country allowed them to be dragged from their homes, seized in 
the midst of the labour that gave their children bread, and ill- 
treated, ill-fed, and ill-paid, and discharged when wounded, to 
die or starve ; yet they made England great, and, sweeping the 
seas with their stout arms, and dying for her with generous 
hearts, carried her empire round the length and breadth of the 
wide world. 

At last, as these first pressed men retired, Daniel came to the 
front, and his stalwart frame and bronzed face caught the Cap- 
tain’s eyes. 

Daniel stated his case in few words, and claimed exemption 
from impressment as a pilot, and commander and owner of his 
own boat. His name being found in the list of pilots, his plea, 
after some light demur, was allowed. 

“ Can yoja pilot us into Falmouth harbour 1 ” asked the Cap- 
tain. “ If so, you may as \\ ell stay on board till we get there.” 


212 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 

“I can do that, sir.’' 

** Yerv well then ; stand aside — your case is settled.’’ 

“ I hope you’ll let me have my boy, sir ; he is part of my crew, 
and I can’t work my little ship without him.” 

“ Put us into Falmouth safely, and we’ll talk about it,” said 
the Captain, with the good-humour of the sunshine still in him. 

“ And the gentleman, sir — my friend, whom the press-gang 
had no right to seize, because he is a barrister, and has nothing 
of a sailor about him except his clothes, and they eddn’t his — 
they belong to my nephew Michael.” 

This speech, spoken quite seriously by Daniel, was received 
with a shout of laughter ; and then, i’ather roughly, he was told 
to stand aside, and Harold was ordered to come forward. 

Like the Irishman he was, he could not help seeing the ludi- 
crous side of his position, although this did not turn him in the 
least from the gravity and determination of his purpose. So, 
though a smile for a moment had glistened in his eye^, no trace 
of it was on his firm lips as Captain Pierson scanned his hand- 
some face. 

“ Do you indorse the story of your friend, the pilot,” he asked, 
in a bantering tone, “ or will you take the King’s shilling, and 
do your duty like a man 

“ I will accept the press-money,” said Harold ; “ but I am no 
sailor. I can offer myself for hospital duty ; and I suppose, in 
case of need, I can fight.” 

His clear enunciation, his cultivated voice, struck Captain 
Pierson’s ear, causing him to scan his prisoner’s appearance with 
a scrutinizing look. 

“ Call the officer who executed the press- warrant,” he said, in- 
a sharp voice. 

“Now, boatswain,” he continued, as the man stood before him, 
“ who is this person whom you impressed last night V 

“ If you please your honour, he is a deserter from the Billy- 
rough-xm ; and I had word of his whereabouts from the man you 
knows on — the crimp, sir.” 

“ Never mind him — get on faster 1 I want to know who the 
man is.” 

“The deserter, sir ; and he had a savage dog who has drowned 
the crimp — as I reported, sir, when I corned aboard ; and he 
attacked the man in hospital as I hurt a bit, sir, when I shot the 
soiimaL” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


213 


“ Hurt a bit !’’ returned the Captain. “ The man is dying — 
so the doctor tells me.” 

Harold felt himself grow p ile ; he clenched his left hand, and 
repressed the exclamation that rose to his lips. Oh, for one 
half-hour’s liberty, to stand by Trevel’s side, and hear what he 
had to tell ! 

“ May I speak to you in private for one instaht he said 
eagerly to Captain Pierson. 

‘‘ Certainly not !” returned that gentleman, inflating himself 
with haughty amazement at such a request being preferred to 
him by a common seaman, who was, moreover a deserter. “You 
have heard my warrant-officer’s account of you, and you have 
not dared to deny the charge. The Bellerophon is at Plymouth ; 
I shall put you aboard of her there, and you will be tried by 
court-martial, and most likely be hanged at the yard-arm as a 
deserter.” 

Hanging was at that time such a popular remedy for all 
crimes, misdemeanours, and mistakes, and the hanging of a 
wrong man an occurance so common, that Harold felt he could 
scarcely afford to laugh at Captain Pierson’s suggestion of his 
probable fate. He took a lawyer’s course instead. 

“ I have a right to demand to see the warrant under which I 
am impressed,” he said cooly. “Be good enough to show it to 
me,” he added in a voice of authority, turning to the boatswain. 

That individual, taken aback by his coolness and his bearing, 
drew the document instantly from a greasy pocket-book, and 
handed it to him. Harold, amid a momentary silence, examined 
it carefully, and then turned it over, and saw it had an indorse- 
ment on the back. 

“ ‘ To be executed only by a commissioned officer,’ ” he read 
aloud. “ And it was intrusted to a warrant-officer ; my impress- 
ment therefore is illegal, and I demand ” 

“ Confound your impudence !” exclaimed Captain Pierson, in- 
terrupting him in a rage. “Will you, a d d deserter, dare 

to stand before me quibbling like a lawyer?” 

“ It is because he is a lawyer, sir,” broke in Daniel eagerly. 

Captain Pierson glared at Daniel with a quarter-deck eye of 
command on hearing this, and then sharply ordered him to stand 
down and keep his own place in silence. 

“Will you permit me,” resumed Harold, keeping his cool ease 
still about him, “ to say what my demand is ? ” 


214 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ The Navy is going to the dogs ! ’’ observed Captain Pierson 
quietly to an officer standing near him. “ Fancy a feli:iw on my 
own quarter-deck speaking to me like that i 

“Do let us hear, sir, what he has to say,’^ returned the other, 
whose eyes were full of suppressed laughter. “ Perhaps he is 
going to ask to join our mess 

Harold overheard this without a smile — his thought was pro- 
jected beyond this scene, and he felt as though it was a kind of 
dream which was to lead him into the reality of Trevel’s con- 
fession of his crime. 

“ Hand that warrant back, and finish what you had to say ? ” 
cried Captain Pierson, in a peremptory voice. 

“ I wished to assure you, sir, with perfeet truth, that the 
warrant of impressment has been illegally executed ; therefore I 
demand to be received into his Majesty’s service freely, and not 
as a pressed man. I do not ask to be allowed to leave the 
ship.” 

“ You are a cool hand,” said Captain Pierson, pressing his 
lips together in contemptuous anger; “and, if you expect to 
escape a court-martial and hanging as a deserter by voluntering 
to serve on board the Vigilant^ you are mistaken. Send a couple 
of marines here ! ” he added, turning to the officer near him. “ I 
have had about enough of this.” 

Harold heard the order, but scarcely understood it till he 
found himself marching as a prisoner between two marine, who, 
without a word, conducted him to a dismal dark recess on the 
lower deck used as a prison, and popularly known as the “ devd’s 
oven ” from its heat and propensitity to stifle or burn men into 
fevers and death. 

Three days of this den, as the ship plunged her way onwards 
to Plymouth, sufficed to make Harold rave of green hills and 
fresh running streams and a high blue sky overhead in which a 
lark on poised wing sang to welcome him home. From this 
dream he awoke with the sweat of pain and sickness on his brow, 
and, opening his dazed eyes in weary wonder, they alighted on 
the pale death- sharpened face of Trevel, swinging slowly in the 
hammock next to his in the ship’s hospital 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


215 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

“ Come in ! ” said a strangely sweet voice in response to 
Estrild’s question as to whether she might enter. “ I have been 
expecting you all the afternoon. I am a sad invalid ; do not 
be shocked when you see me.’’ 

Yet Estrild was shocked when her cousin rose from his arm- 
chair and came forward with trembling step to receive her. 
His large dark eyes sunk within thick overhanging brows, his face 
pale to ghastliness, his white attenuated hand held out in greet- 
ing — all struck her with the painful idea of death in life. In 
his presence she felt herself to be standing on the threshold 
between flesh and spirit, as though the touch of death, resting 
coldly on him, had half drawn aside the veil which wraps the 
soul and hides the impenetrable world of spirits from the human 
ken. 

“ You are ill indeed ! ” she said pityingly, .still holding his 
hand, and looking into his face with deep compassion in her 
eyes. ’ ^ 

Then she saw a flush rise vividly to his thin cheeks, and he 
sank back on his chair with a little quiver on his lips, changing 
quickly to a forced smile. 

“ Please do not pity me ! ” he said, in a laughing tone. I 
am weak enough not to like it — and I am really stronger than 
you would suppose I can even drive out at times — on sunny 
days,” he added, checking a sigh. How let me look at you ; I 
want to see if your face is the same that I remember as a child’s. 
Do you know, it is fifteen years since we last met ; and you can- 
not recollect me ? ” 

“ Hot in the least,” said Estrild, shrinking a little from his 
fixed gaze. 

“ I have a picture of you which my mother drew when you 
were four years old — you are still like it ; ” and, rising, he open- 
ed an old brass-bound desk, and took from it a small portfolio, 
which he laid on the table before her. “ Here is your portrait,” 
he said — “and here is mine. Would you believe that was ever 
meant for me ? Ah, health is happiness and beauty 1 But I had 
love too then — my mother was living.” 

“ How long have you been ill ? ” asked Estrild hurriedly, re- 
penting of her question as soon as asked ; for she saw the flush 
rise again upon his face. 


21d 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ Ever since I — I found myself alone in the world. My ill- 
health arose first from a blow.” 

Estrild raised her eyes and met his — they had changed to 
living flames ; his thin hands, clenched, rested on the table, 
which trembled beneath the nervous passionate pressure. 

“ You see, if hatred grows out of such things, one cannot help 
it,” he said, in a voice which vibrated in the ear like a note 
struck by a soul in agony. 

“ I am very sorry,” Estrild began. 

“ Oh, don’t be sorry for me ! I am quite happy, now I know 
the worst. And, you see, I have made my prison very pretty 
and comfortable ; ” and he looked around with a sad smile, on his 
books and paintings. 

“ Have you been here long in this room in such terrible lone- 
liness ? ” 

“ Oh, no — not long — only about two years.” 

‘‘ Only two years ! ” repeated Estrild. “When I was ill at 
Salisbury, two weeks appeared to me a long weary time.” 

“ ^ou were in great danger then,” said her cousin, looking at 
her strangely as he spoke, “ I feared for your life.” 

“ I was not so seriously ill as that, I assure you,” she answer- 
ed, her colour deepening ; for her heart with a bound carried her 
thoughts to Harold, and to that madness of grief in her which 
had made her cruel. 

“ Why did you fly away ? ” said Gilbert, putting his hand on 
his forehead. “ I wanted to tell you something ; now it is gone.” 

“ Well, I am come back,” returned Estrild, trying to smile, 
though her wistful eyes were gathering tears. “ I fear it is your 
memory that floats away.” 

“ Ho, it is not that ; I have a terrible power of memory — a 
vindictive memory ; but, when I am talking to people, if their 
thoughts leave me I follow them ; I go where they go.” 

“ My thoughts rushed down to Salisbury just now.” 

“ Oh, I did not know the place, but I felt the sorrow of it ; I 
heard a chord of music floating through darkness, and i saw the 
face that you saw.” 

Startled by his words, Estrild drew back slightly flushed and 
trembling. 

“ Carrie has been talking to you about me,” she said, in a hurt 
tone. 

“ Oh, no ; Carrie has her own brothers and sisters to think of 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


217 


^she does not often talk to me. I frighten her — she does not 
like me.” 

“ Then I suppose Mrs. Vicat told you of my illness, and has 
given you my history as far as she knows it ? ” 

‘‘ Yes ; but there are things she cannot tell me — things I know 
of myself, not existing in her lore. Sickness, loneliness, and 
fasting bring visions with them.” 

He leaned back in his chair as if lost in thought ; and Estrild, 
glancing at his death- white face, his pale hands, his attenuated 
frame, scarcely deemed him for the moment earthly. ^ 

Again the idea struck her that he stood upon the threshold be- 
tween flesh and spirit, and had stood thus so long that he had 
gained- power to look within the gate and see tha unutterable, 
the formless, for which the tongue had no language, the eye no 
shape. Once more she shrank farther from him with a coldness 
creeping over her flesh, and a stronger love of life — this dear hu- 
man life — -bounding at her heart. 

He looked up suddenly with a wistful smile on his poor white 
face. 

“ Don't let me frighten you,” he sad, with a sort of sad eager- 
ness. “ Terror is repelling. I frighten Carrie ; so she scarcely 
ever comes near me. But you and I are akin — wo shall be 
friends, I hope.” 

‘‘ I hope so too,” Estrild answered ; but the chill was still on 
her nerves as she spoke. 

“ We ought to care a little for each other, being cousins,” he 
continued, sighing as he spoke, and fixing his eyes on her in a 
searching sorrowful gaze. 

“Yes, we ought — we are such near relations,” Estrild assented 
uneasily. 

“ And we stand alone in the world,” he said, “ and save each 
others’ lives.” 

“ What do you mean ? I can’t see how we do that,” she re- 
turned. 

“ Can’t you see that, if one dies, the other, being the last of 
our race, will be attacked fiercely by the enemy ? So that one 
of us two, who dies first, will sign the death-warrant of the 
other.” 

“ I hope not,” she answered, trying to speak playfully. “I 
think you should not harbour such strange gloomy fancies.” 

“ It is not all fancy — there is a vein of truth in it. And, 


218 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


though it is not all of this world, neither is it all of the next. 
The man who kills us is a man ; he is not a spirit unclothed by 
the flesh. The thing is a mystery I have wasted my life in 
striving to fathom.’^ 

Estrild had grown very pale. 

“ Perhaps it is a mystery best left untouched,^’ she said, with 
quiet sadness. “ I dread to hear it spoken of. It is such a little 
while ago since Tristram died, as we all die, by a sudden inex- 
plicable accident. A man ? Oh, no — no man on earth could 
haunt us with such vindictive hatred ! 

“ He may have no hatred — he may simply be compelled to 
work out anothePs vengeance. The man may be sorrowful 
beyond all human sorrow because led by a spirit that possesses 
and impels him against his will.^^ 

“ That is a dreadful theory ! ” said Estrild, turning hastily 
away from the pale face with its unearthly glow, the eyes un- 
naturally bright, shining as though lighted by some lamp from 
within, which added tenfold strength to the words her cousin 
uttered. 

“ It is the only theory which will account for all that has 
happened,” he answ^ered in eager excitement. “ I have thought 
over it for years, and I have come at last to that conclusion.” 

It is an impossible conclusion,” insisted Estrild. “ Does a 
man live for hundreds of years ? ” • 

“ No ; but a race does — a family lives and inherits the life and 
the curse of its progenitor. Even a disease in that ancestor’s 
veins lives on for hundreds of years — why then not his passions ? 
And, if his malady can fasten on the blood of his descendant, 
why should not his evil spirit fasten on his heart, and impel him 
to deeds he hates ? ” 

‘‘ If you carried out that idea to its full end, we should not be 
free agents, and it would make one spirit, and one only, answer- 
able for the sins of the whole world. We all descend from one 
common ancestor.” 

“ Well, I will not say that one spirit is not answerable for the 
sins of the world, but 1 do not call that spirit Adam. I go 
further back into the immeasurable realms that thought cannot 
pierce,” he answered. 

“ I will not try to follow you,” said Estrild shrinkingly. “ The 
evil of this world saddens me enough ; to think of it as rushing 
on UB through unfathomable time, and rushing onwards through 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


219 


eternity to blast other worlds, would fill me with fear and 
horror.’^ 

“ Let us come back to ourselves — the two units in the worlds 
that interest us most,’’ said her cousin, recalling his gaze from its 
far-away look. “ Here, in my loneliness, shut out from all hu- 
man ties and hopes, I have tried to fiing my soul forward into 
the future beyond the flesh ; but it holds me still, and you cannot 
think how I long at times for the touch of a hand, the sound of 
a voice, the warmth of some dear human comfort, that would call 
me back in a moment from all my cold visions of spirits that 
bring no consolation.” 

These words touched Estrild with pity ; she drew nearer to him, 
and laid her hand kindly on his shoulder. 

“ You will not be so lonely now I am h'^re,” she said. 

“ Will you bear with me ? ” he asked eagerly. “ WiU you 
come here sometimes, if only for a minute in the day ? Yuu can- 
not imagine the sadness of solitary confinement, or the solace of 
speech to one shut up in silence as I am.’^ 

“ I will come often — until you tell me I trouble you.’' 

“ T shall never tell you that. It is not only that I have been 
lonely through sickness,” he continued, “but through diflerence 
of race and blood. I am an alien here, and so I have to sufier 
hatred, and feel that all my efforts to win love only bring fear 
or contempt.” 

“But that is not the case now. You and I are of the same 
race — we can sympathise with each other.” 

He looked up, with eagerness and pleasure shining in his dove- 
bright eyes ; but in a moment his head drooped again. 

“ It is so strange to hear words of kindness,” he murmured. 
“ But it will not last — you will grow afraid of me as the others 
do.” 

Estrild’s colour changed. 

I hope not,” she said softly. 

She could say no more, for, even as she spoke, she was con- 
scious of a repulsion, touched with fear, that ran -coldly through 
her pity and that sympathy of race which she undoubtedly felt. 
Perhaps it was this capability of comprehending him which gave 
her a kind of terror, as it enabled her to follow him to that bor- 
derland on which he dwelt, and from which she shrank in horror. 

“ You only hope it t ” he said wistfully. “ WeM; I hope it toa 


220 


FROM THE OTHER SIDS. 


Kow let US talk of other things. Tell me how you like it here 
among my people.'' 

‘‘ 1 like Carrie ; and I think your step-mother has a kind 
heart.” 

“ Yes, she is kind naturally ; but without courage a kind 
heart is an empty egg-shell. Carrie is strong and good and vul- 
gar, and I like her, though she often makes me feel as J ob did 
when the ‘ hair of his flesh stood up.' You cannot stay among 
us long,” he added suddenly. “ Life would be unendurable to 
you in our atmosphere.” 

“ I must stay, I suppose, until I am of age — unless I put my- 
self in Chancery,” she said, smiling. 

“ Doing that would waste your substance and your life too. 
You can marry before you are of age, and escape that way.” 

“ I think not,” said Estrild, as a bright colour flew to her face, 
then faded as quick as it came. There are many hindrances 
to that. Mr. Vicat is my guardian, and would not consent to 
my marrying any one but a person of his own choosing.” 

“ And you know, I suppose, that he has made a choice ? ” 

Estrild looked up with quick fear. 

“ No ; he cannot have dared to do such a thing ! '' 

‘‘ Oh, yes ! He has selected a husband for you, who, as he 
thinks, would further his own ends by dying and leaving him to 
inherit your wealth.” 

Estrild glanced in dismay at her cousin. He was leaning 
back in his chair, his eyes partly closed^ his face expressive of in- 
tense bitterness and pain. Suddenly he looked up and caught 
her gaze, and gave her a sad smile. 

“ Do not let it make any diflerence between us — do not let it 
part us, or take from me a single word of kindness of yours. 
Why should you play into his cruel hands ? You know he is 
trying to kill me. He is my heir.” 

Estril i listened, but could not speak — a sick fear was clutching 
at her heart. And it was dreadful to see a son believing so in- 
tensely in the greed of his father— the more dreadful to her be- 
cause of the love and trust which had been the very roots of her 
own life. 

“ I ought not to have told you of this mad wicked scheme,” 
continued Gilbert, in a pained voice — “ it will make you hate me 
all the sooner.” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


221 


** Surely I shall never hate you ! ” she answered hesitatingly. 

Why imagine such a sad thing ? 

“You don^t know me yet — you do not understand all my 
weakness. To be in the grasp of a tyrant for ’years does not 
strengthen the nerves, and he knows his power — he knows what 
be can make me do. If you saw me act under his influence, you 
would hate me — you would have cause, he concluded bitterly. 

“ But you are not lending yourself to his schemes ? ” exclaimed 
Estrild hastily. “ And you are aware that I am engaged to Mr, 
Olver ? ” 

“ Do not wrong me,” he pleaded, with pathetic sadness. “ I 
am thinking of death, not marriage. And I am not ignorant of 
your love for Mr. Olver, or of your promise to your brother. 
Pleasance told me. She writes to me sometimes ; her letters 
come to me like little winged messengers from heaven. Do you 
know I could help you, if you would let me V 

He spoke eagerly, as if anxious to eflace from her mind the 
painful impression made by his confession of Mr. Ticat’s plans. 

“ In what way could you help me asked Estrild. “ I should 
not ask you to stand by me in any dispute between me and Mr. 
Vicat; you are not strong enough for warfare.” 

“True, I should make a poor defender in battle against him ; 

but there are other ways, other means ” He hesitated, then 

stopped, his eyes fixed inquiringly on her, as though seeking to 
read encouragement in her face. 

Something in his expression, she could not define what, made 
her answer strangly. 

“Lawful means, I hope,” she said — “not anything un- 
earthly ? ” 

“ On this earth how can anything be unearthly ? Whatever 
power is here in the world it must be lawful to use— if used 
well,” he added. “ The very fact of its existence on the earth 
makes it earthly, though it may be mysterious and not under- 
stood, Don^t you see that ? Let me show you what I mean.” 
He rose eagerly, and took from an inlaid cabinet a crystal, 
which he held towards her. “ The art of divining by crystals, or 
rather the power of seeing the visions of the mind reflected in a 
crystal is a very ancient one,” he said. “ Are you afraid to look 1 
You must let me hold your hand the while.” 

“ I am not afraid ; but I think it a folly — one of the delusive 
tricks of Eastern conjurers.” 


222 


FROM THE OTHER SIDK 


He paid no heed to this remark. He placed the crystal in 
her right hand, while he grasped the left tightly in his own 
right. 

“ Now concentrate all your power of thought on the person 
you most wish to see, and a vision of him will rise in the 
crystal.^' • 

Estrild. half curious, half fearful, and wholly full of love and 
anxiety for Harold, thought of him with all her strength ; but 
the crystal remained dull, as though a cloud covered it. 

“What do you see?” asked her cousia His voice sounded 
strangely, as though floating to her from a distance. 

“ 1 see nothing,” she aswered faintly ; “ but I hear the rushing 
of water.” 

And now she was conscious that, without relinquishing her 
hand, he had placed her in a chair, from which she had no power 
to move, while, stretching out his arm, he took another crystal 
from the cabinet, which he put, as he had the first, in her right 
hand. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips on this hand with 
full warm strength, and, though she felt her heart beat angrily, 
she had neither wish nor will to resist him. 

The next moment she was standing up, as she thought, in a 
dark place alone, except for the clasp of a hand whose grasp she 
felt through all her veins in a thrill of pain which yet was not 
pain, but like a little breath of tire which did not burn. 

“ Where am I ?” she tried to say, but found she had no voice. 
The rush of waves sounded deeper and deeper around her, then 
a speck of light touched the crystal and spread on it, and with 
dilated eyes she saw Harold leaning over the hammock of a sick 
and dying man. Voices fainter than the whisper of summer 
leaves seemed to issue from the vision, yet the words touched 
her ear distinctly. 

“ Speak the truth, as you hope for mercy.” 

“ I have spoken it. As truly as I am a dying man, I swear it 
was an accident. Just as the unearthly whistle rang through 
the air the pistol ” 

The clasp of the hand holding her in the darkness relaxed, the 
breath of tire changed to a cold wind, the fingers let go the grasp 
of hers ; she was standing again in the dim light of her cousin’s 
room, and he had fallen to the floor in a dead faints 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


223 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Estrild stood for a moment dazed and bewildered, incapable 
of thought, scarcely understanding where she was ; then, recover- 
ing herself, she sprang to the door and called for help. Her 
cries brought Carrie to her aid. She knelt down by her brother’s 
side and chafed his hands — not with her usual self-possession, 
but in a flurrid and scared way, and with her face growing nearly 
as white as his. 

He always frightens me,^’ she said, in an awed tone. I 
hate to come near him ! What has he been doing to bring on 
ail this ? ” 

Estrild was silent ; her thoughts were too confused for her to 
give a clear answer to this question — so she let it pass. To her 
surprise it was Gilbert himself who replied — 

“ Oh, nothing, Carrie ! It was only a little faintness ; and I 
am better now, thank you.” 

“ I am glad to hear it,” returned Carrie, in rather a sharp 
voice ; “ and I think, knowing how weak you are, you should not 
try any of those absurd experiments you are so fond of. I can 
see you have scared Estrild nearly out of her wits.” 

She looked from one to the other with a suspicious glance full 
of fear ; then she took Estrild’s hand, and drew her towards the 
door. 

“ Are you going ? ” asked Gilbert wistfully, his large eyes fixed 
on them with the gaze of a child who dreaded to be left alone. 
He had risen during Carrie’s speech, and, aided by her arm, had 
gained his couch, on which he lay back still faint and weak. 

‘‘ I will stay with you if you wish it,” said Estrild. 

“He does not wish it,” interposed Carrie sharply. “ Tell her 
so, Gilbert — tell her you are best left alone after these attacks.” 

“ Yes, that is true,” he answered, with a deep sigh. “You 
had better leave me, Estrild.” 

Carrie did not wait for another word ; she drew Estrild away 
and closed the door. 

“ I would never let you go in there again if I had my way,” 
she said, as she almost dragged Estrild down the stairs. “ I was 
foolish enough once to listen to him, till I got very ill as a warn- 
ing ; then I stopped.” 

“A warning ?” queried Estrild 


224 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ Yes ; a warning that one must not meddle with the next world 
while one lives in this one/* 

Estrild felt that she could not argue the question ; she was still 
too bewildered to think clearly, and the haze resting on her mind 
seemed to cover also the vision she had seen ; so that she had no 
fear regarding it — no sufficient beli f in it to cause her anxiety 
or dread. In the same dazed way she listened mechanically to 
Carriers words without their having any effect or influence on 
her. 

‘‘ It was Tom who saved me,** continued Carrie. “ Thank 
goodness, he is the very incarnation of common sense 1 It is by 
his wish that I see Gilbert ns seldom as possible.’* 

“But that is not kind,” said Estrild. 

They were in the little back-parlour now, and Carrie turned 
and stared at her. 

“ Kind ! ” she repeated. “ There is not a word in the English 
language so misused as that. Would it be kind to the others to 
allow myself to be driven out of my senses ] A nice mill-stone 
I should be round mother’s neck then, instead of being a help to 
her. And would it be kind to Tom ? ’* 

“I don’t know,** returned Estrild; ‘you bewilder me a 
little.’* 

“ That’s because you have just had your senses drawn out of 
you by one of Gilbert’s wizard tricks, and so you can’t see things 
in the right light.” 

“Was it a trick?** asked Estrild, rousing herself from the 
strange torpor into which she had fallen. 

“ Ah, I was certain he had played the wizard, and taken you 
in before your own eyes!” exclaimed Carrie. “I know it by 
your dazed look. The whole thing is a delusion — mind that ; so 
don’t be persuaded out of your senses. Oh here’s Tom ! Now 
y^ou shall hear his opinion of Gilbert’s magic.” 

The young man, whom Carrie now introduced as Mr. Ash- 
leigh, had a bright honest face, a small neat flgure, and a brisk 
manner which was pleasant, though slightly too free and easy. 

The introduction being over, he perched himself astride a 
music-stool, and scanned Carrie from head to foot with an admir- 
ing smile. 

“ That’s a tip-top gown, Carrie and you are looking first-rate 1 
Now what’s the question before the present Parliament 1 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


225 


Waren^t you discussing something like a pair of big- wigs when I 
came in ? 

Estrild was silent ; such odd familiarity, such queer manners, 
were new to her, Carrie’s sweetheart appeared to her as an 
odiously vulgar person with a peculiar phraseology of his own. 

“We were talking of Gilbert,’^ said Carrie. 

“Oh, poor fellow, he is perfectly cracked, and believes he can 
peep and pry into the middle of the next year and the business 
of the next world ! In my opinion such things are best 
left alone ; our work in this world is as much as we can man- 
age.” 

“ I do not consider ray cousin in the least crazed,” returned 
Estrild coldly. “You must remember that we are not all built 
on the same plan.” 

Quite true, miss. One fellow can go down the crater of 
Mount Vesuvius and peep at the eternal tires ; another fellow, if 
he tried it, would be scorched up. Now, Carrie, pop on your 
bonnet, or we shall lose the tuning-up of the fiddles. It is a 
weakness of mine to be in good time for everything.” 

Caarie, in prompt obedience, quitted the room ; and then her 
lover, with quite another manner, turned to Estrild. 

For her sake I always speak of her brother’s strange powers 
in a jesting way,” he said. “Pray excuse it. Miss .Carbonellis. 
I assure you it is a necessity to make her think lightly of them. 
At one time he had great influence over her, with the result to 
her of ruined health. She was sleepless, and was always seeing 
ghosts ; she is not the sort of person who can descend craters and 
stand the smell of sulphur.” 

“ But surely my cousin’s power — if he possesses occult power, 
as you suppose — is not an evil one ? ” expostulated Estrild 
anxiously. 

“ It is evil when it does harm, which it certainly did to Car- 
rie.” 

“ It would not hurt me,” Estrild answered. 

He looked at her with a pair of searching light blue eyes. 
They were insignificant eyes apparently, with overhanging lids 
and light brows, but they were eyes that saw clearly and had 
honest truth in them. 

“I think you are mistaken in yourself,” he rejoined. “I 
should imagine that you were peculiarly sensitive to such in- 
fluence.s. And is there not some story of tradition in your 
o 


226 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


family which makes it the more dangerous for you to tread on 
forbidden ground, because it might strengthen the — the gloomy 
faith you have in misfortune ? 

“ You needn’t have hesitated over my sad belief in the fate 
that befalls us/’ said Estrild. “ Our history proves that I have 
cause enough for my gloomy faith.’' 

“ I have heard the story,” resumed Tom, “and I don’t pretend 
to understand it. But, if I were in your place, I would never 
think of it at all, or allow it to influence my life. I must tell 
Carrie to introduce you to my little friend Mary Armstrong. 
She is a perfect antidote against unhealthy thoughts ; she did 
Carrie a world of good.” 

“ Armstrong ! Is she related to Captain Armstrong who was 
drowed the other day ? ” 

“ She is his daughter and only child, and the queerest, quaint- 
est little creature — one moment a baby, and the next a woman — 
and ” 

“ I have no wish to make her acquaintance, thank you ! ” inter- 
rupted Estrild. “ It would be too painful — my brother met his 
dej th on the deck of her father’s ship.” 

‘‘ Yes ; I am sorry I had forgotten that. But she would do 
you good if you could bear to see her — not now, but when she 
returns to London ; she is away at present. Miss Carbon ellis, I 
have something to tell you, and I have tried to talk away my 
unwillingness to speak because — well, because I fear it is bad 
news.” 

“ What is it ? ” asked Estrild, in sharp fear. “ You must tell 
it now ? ” 

“ Perhaps there is no cause for alarm ; but at Mr. Giver’s 
chambers they are getting anxious about him. He has not 
written or sent any news of himself since the night he left so 
suddenly, when he wrote those few words wich I brought to 
you.” 

“ He said he should be away a few days. How long ago is it 
now ? ” she said, pressing her hand on her forehead. 

“ Teh days. I think,” said Tom. “ And this morning, having 
a holiday, 1 think I couldn’t do better than gather all the pai'- 
ticulars I could for you.” 

“Yes — you are very kind and Estrild looked at him vague- 
ly, not seeing his frank face, seeing only again, as in the crystal, 
Harold’s figure, white and worn, stooping over a dying man. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


227 


“ And so I have found out that Mr. Olver quitted his room 
with a sea-fearing man, and they both got into a boat waiting 
for tliem at the Temple stairs, and rowed to a barge in the river 
— or it might be a brig — at all events, and it was named the 
Curlew^ and it has gone to sea. This was all I could discover ; 
and it took time I assure you, to drag the information out of the 
mouth of stupid witnesses.” 

‘‘ Gone to sea ? ” repeated Estrild ; and again there floated 
dimly before her the vision in the crystal. 

“ Well, the is gone to sea,” said Mr. Ashleigh, as if 

anxious to speak with the utmost correctness. “ Do you know 
anything of her ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! — and I know her owner and captain, Daniel Pas- 
coe.” 

“ Then in that case,” continued Tom, quite relieved. “ I pre- 
sume there is no cause for anxiety.” 

“No — I think not ; only I cannot imagine why Harold should 
go back to Cornwall, or why Daniel should come to London, un- 
less ” — and her face flushed as with sudden pain — “ they have 
received information which has sent them again on a wild quest.” 

“ But in that case would not Mr. Olver have written to you?” 

Estrild clasped her hands tightly together, and strained her 
eyes if beholding some inward vision before she answered. 

“ No ; I have no right to diope for a letter. My brother’s 
death has parted me from Mr. Olver.” 

“ Do you mean you have broken off your engagement with 
him ? ” asked practical Tom Ashleigh, in astonishment. 

“Yes — I mean that. I promised my brother that if the old 
mystery that pursues us was connected with his death I would 
never marry.” She broke down suddenly here, not weeping, but 
covering her face with her hands, as though to shut from her 
eyes some dreadful sight. 

Tom was silent for a moment, partly in pity, partly in wonder, 
such thought and feeling being so strange to him, living his life 
in all the realism of London, whose thronged streets have no 
place for the ghosts of the dead. Then too gropingly his mind 
was seizing the truth — that, in the hope to release her from the 
burden of her promise, Harold had flung himself into some wild 
adventure. 

“ Yours is a promise that cannot be kept,” said Tom, with 


228 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


quite firmness. “ I hope the letter I left at Mr. Olver’s cham- 
bers was to recall him.’^ 

The slender hands still covering her face could not hide the 
warm flush that rose to it now as she said “Yes/’ in a voice 
scarcely audible. Then, having spoken, her hands fell, and she 
looked up, with a quick fear springing to her eyes. 

“Oh, Mr. Ashleigh, it was a solemn promise — an earnest, 
dreadful promise ; and I have done wrong to break it in spirit ! 
You see. Fate has stepped in to prevent me from breaking it in 
reality. Harold has not received my recall — will never receive 
it now. Mr. Ashleigh, you must fetch back that letter.” 

“ I’ll be hanged if I do 1” said Tom, slapping the top of his hat, 
which rested on his knee, with a broad hand, “ A thing done 
can’t be undone ; the letter will stop where it is. And I trust 
Mr. Olver will r6ad it before the world is a week older. Oh, 
here you are at last, Carrie ; and I hope you are ashamed of 
yoursc-lf for having taken about an hour to put your bonnet on. 
If it took me as long to ram my hat on my head as it does a 
woman to fix a flimsy bit of ribbon and gauze on hers, I’d go 
bareheaded all my life.” 

“ Don’t talk, Tom ; my bonnet is good substantial straw, and 
I have not taken a minute to put it on. I have been dressing 
mother, and mending all her hooks-and-eyes. Somehow she is 
always like the kings of Israel in grief — she is constantly rend- 
ing her garments.” 

“You are a little humbug — full of excuses!” retorted Tom, 
putting his arm around her affectionately, utterly regardles of 
the bad taste of the proceeding in Estrild’s presence. “ And 
now, if there is nobody else to mend, I suppose we may start at 
once. ” 

A minute or two more of noise, bustle, and laughter, and 
Estrild was left alone in the dead dusty silence of the London 
back-parlour. 

Thoughts, feelings, fears, hopes, an indistinguishable throng, 
crowded in upon her mind, crossing and recrossing the one dom- 
inant sense of bewilderment, of painful groping for one clear 
thread of light amid all the dark clouds of uncertainty that 
gathered around her. 

Was it indeed true that Harold was gone to sea? If so, then 
Gilbert was no charlatan, deceiving her and perhaps himself, but 
who had power as he had asserted, to see “ things in a glass 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


229 


darkly which were hid from common sight. But then what 
did the whisper mean that had touched her ear as from some far- 
away breath wafted across the surging of the sea? Was it a 
true voice or a delusion I Joan of Arc heard voices, and the 
world called her mad to this day. Surely the world was wrong ! 
And in its wrong-headedness it burnt her, because she had gifts 
it could not comprehend. But such gifts could not be unlawful, 
since they were given to a woman so noble and so pure. Yet she 
might not have coveted them ; and they brought her sorrow and 
the stake. 

As her thoughts reached this stage, Estrild looked up with a 
sudden flush of fear. What had she gained by the momentary 
gazr^ into things beyond her sense ? Only pain, only grief ; for 
the vision showed Harold worn with sickness, and the words of 
the voice — a dying voice, that would not dare to lie — strength- 
ened the mystery of Tristram^s death, and brought her vow again 
into her mind with a burning sense of shame for having striven 
to break it. 

‘‘ Oh, Harold, if you have indeed sailed away — perchance in 
anger — for some distant land, it is better so — better that you 
and I should meet no more ! ” 

She wept a little as her thought took shape in these words, but 
started up and wiped her tears hastily as the sound of an opening 
door and the creak of an ugly step showed her that in another 
moment her solitude would be broken in upon by the odious pre- 
sence of Mr. Vicat. 

He came in large and smiling, as with some new triumph 
shining on his coarse face. 

“So you are quite alone, my dear, and they are all gone off 
to their pleasure-seeking ? ’’ 

“ They are gone with Mr. Ashleigh,” said Estrild, not looking 
up from the book she had seized under the pretence of read- 
ing. 

“ Ah, so much the better ! I wanted to have a quiet talk with 
you. And you have seen your cousin- — my dear son ? ” 

“Yes.^' 

“Well, of course you like him — you feel interested in him ?” 

Estrild began to trembla What did he mean by these 
questions ? They roused her indignation, she knew not 'why. 

“ I perceive that Gilbert is very ill,” she answered, “ and I feel 
sorry for him.” 


230 


FROM THE OTHER SIDR 


“ He is not so ill as he appears/’ said Mr. Yicat. “ It is as- 
tonishing how his strength lasts, in spite of his extraordinary 
.abstinence at times from food and sleep. In fact he is a mystery 
to us all ; but I am in hopes, my dear, that you will underst-cnd 
him, and will eventually restore him to himself and to us. You 
guess perhaps that the earnest desire of my heart is to see you 
both happy — with each other.” 

A flush of scornful indignation rose to Estrild’s face as she 
looked up at the coarse man who uttered this ; but for the piti- 
ful sake of his dying son she held back her disgust and 
anger. 

“ I will thank you, uncle, never again to speak such words 
as those to me. I warn you that if you do so I will quit your 
house.” 

“ That is an impossible threat,” said Mr. Vicat, with quiet 
satisfaction. Your father’s will, and my power through it, 
cannot be set aside by the caprice of a girl.” 

Vexed tears rose to Estrild’s eyes, but she kept silent. 

“ You remain under my guardianship till you are of age, or 
till your marriage — with my consent,’^ resumed Mr. Vicat. 
‘‘ And I trust you will soon see that your best chance of happi- 
ness lies in the choice I have indicated.” 

Can you not see,” exclaimed Estrild, with intense indigna- 
tion, that by the utterance of such a horrible idea you separate 
me from my unfortunate cousin — you prevent me from being 
friendly and helpful to him — you shut me out altogether from his 
presence ? I shall never go to see him again.” 

She rose to leave the room ; but Mr. Vicat stood between her 
and the door, and his big hot hand seized her by the arm. 

“ Sit down, girl,” he said sternly, “and listen to what I have 
to say. I have something to tell you. I know that you are 
nursing a delusion. You fancy you will one day marry that for- 
tune-hunting penniless. barrister, Harold Olver ; but the sooner 
you clear your mind of that fancy the better. The young man 
is dead.” 

“ Why tell me such a falsehood ? ” asked Estrild, as her heart 
quaked within her and the blood flew from her face, leaving it 
white a5 snow. 

“ I am not in the habit of telling falsehoods,” said Mr. Vicat, 
with a sort of pompous indignation. “Sit down, my dear ; you 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


251 


are a little overcome. Now, if you can bear the details, I will 
give them.” 

Unable to speak, Estrild signed to him to go on ; she kept her 
eyes fixed on him in dread, not believing him, and yet listening 
to his hard voice in terror that his words might be true. 

“ Knowing Olver was missing, I have been making inquiries 
lately ; and I find that in company with a sailor he went on 
board ” 

‘‘ The Curlew, Yes, yes — I know all that,” interrupted Es- 
trild, in impatient pain ; “ and he is gone to sea with Daniel.” 

Pardon me ! The Curlew sailed without her owner, and 
without Mr. Olver. He left that barque in disguise, and, in 
company with Daniel Pascoe, went to one of the lowest and vil- 
est dens at the East-end of London. On leaving this place, 
dragging brutally with them some man whom they had seized, 
they were set upon by a press-gang A fight ensued^ in which 
Mr. Olver was flung into the liver and drowned.” 

‘‘ Mr. Yicat, this is a hideous and cruel lie ! How could you 
khow all this ] ” 

Estrild was standing now, and her blanched face, her eyes 
dilated by fear, seemed to cow Mr. Vicat. He paused in his 
narrative, and once more implored her to sit down. 

“ No,” she answered ; “and I want none of your pity or help. 
Speak out all you have to say quickly.” 

“ I had these details,” continued Mr. Vicat, in a hardar tone, 
‘from an official at the Mansion House. Daniers nephew had 
applied for help, and gave the history of the night’s proceedings 
as I have told you — except the fight with the press-gang; of that 
he knew nothing. He added that in the river he had found Mr. 
Giver’s dog, shot through the head, and also his own hat, which 
that gentleman had worn as part of his disguise. • Hence he 
feared foul play, and asked what he should do. He was then 
told a press-gang was out, and his friend had doubtless been 
seized ; and he was advised to go home. He took that advice; 
he hoisted sail and away.” 

. “Yes, it was a large ship,” said Estrild dreamily, with her 
hand upon her forehead. “There is no such place in the Curlew 
as the one I saw. Oh, Harold is safe !” she added, as her hand 
dropped and a smile broke on her face. 

“Safe in heaven you mean?” resumed Mr. Vicat, with a quick 
sharp look. 


232 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“No ; he is on board one of the King’s ships,” she answered 
firmly. 

“May I ask from whom you received that remarkable piece of 
information "f’ demanded Mr. Yicat. 

Estrild gazed at him in the same dreamy way ; she put out 
her hands gropingly, and grasped the back of a chair ; a haze 
was over her eyes, through which Mr. Vicat’s figure loomed out 
large and threatening, but indistinct. 

Seeing her silent, he went on in quick sharp triumph — 

“ I ask that question because I am sorry any one should at- 
tempt to deceive you. I trust you will not allow yourself to be 
cheated by any deception, no matter of what kind. I have had 
ocular demonstration of the fact of Mr. Giver’s death. I am just 
come away from identifying his body, which has been drawn 
from the Thames.” 

There was still not a word from the pale figure who clung 
trembling to her support and listened with that far-away look in 
her eyes as if she heard another and clearer voice than his. 

“ I went to the river-side,” continued Mr. Yicat, inflating him- 
self with a pompous sense of his own shrewdness, “ when I 
quitted the Mansion House, in the certainty that I should gain 
fresh intelligence. And I did. I laid hold of a fishy kind of 
urchin w^ho had seen the dead dog and had got his collar, which 
1 bought of him. In reward for my liberality, he informed me 
with great glee that the drowned gentleman was at the water- 
house, ‘ drawed out of the water this mornin’ and nobody knows 
’im,’ he said. Upon this, my dear, I made my way to that place 
saw the poor corpse, and identified it as being Mr. Giver’s. To- 
morrow I shall have to attend the inquest and give evidence to 
this efiect. I hope you believe now what I have told you. And 
pray do not grieve for a man whom only a disgraceful errand 
could have dtawn to the vile place he vis ted that night.” 

He came near and put out his big hand to touch hers ; and 
Estrild awoke from her strange stupor, and drawing back, she 
looked him in the face with steadfast eyes. 

“ I do not believe a word you have uttered 1 ” 

“ Good heavens,” broke in Mr. Yicat — “ this is mere mad 
obstinacy 1 Why, the history and the inquest will be in the 
papers to-morrow ! ” 

“ Will that prove it true?” asked Estrild, in the same cold 
calm voice. 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


233 


In answer Mr. Vicat only shrugged his shoulders, as if her 
words were not worthy of reply. 

“ But, true or untrue,’^ she continued, ** it can make no differ- 
ence to my fate, for, whether Harold be dead or living, I shall 
never be wife to any man.” 

She let go her h<»ld of the chair to which she had clung, and 
walked with quick firm step to the door. Mr. Yicat sprang for- 
ward and opened it for her, and the look on her white face, as 
she passed out, haunted him for an hour afterwards, till, with 
greedy haste, he had eaten a good dinner at the hotel to which 
Carrie’s domestic tactics had driven him. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

' The inquest was over, and the drowned man dragged from the 
river, whom no one claimed, whom no one recognized, was posi- 
tively identified by Mr. Yicat as the missing Harold Giver. In 
vain the old laundress from his chambers protested her doubt, 
and declared that never in his life had he worn aay thing but the 
finest of linen in his shirts, and that such garments as those found 
on the dead man- were not his, and never could be his. This ob 
jection was met by the acknowledged fact that he had quitted 
the Curlew in disguise ; and this, added to the other and stronger 
fact that he was still missing and that Mr. Yicat swore this poor 
disfigured corpse was his, decided the verdict of the jury, and 
Mr. Harold Giver was declared to be found drowned, but how, 
and by what means, there was no evidence to show. The press- 
gang was left out of tlie question ; no one liked to animadvert on 
the doings of a body so powerful, who acted within their legal 
rights in seizing seamen ; but each juryman in his own mind 
came to the conclusion that Harold had defended himself and 
been drowned in the struggle. His companion, who was an un- 
doubted sailor, had certainly been carried off ; but the fleet had 
sailed, and neither his evidence nor that of any other sailor with- 
in its wooded walls could be procured. The Curlew also was at 
sea — hence Michael was no more within reach of the Coroner’s 
summons than the others. 

And meanwhile the drowned man had to be buried, and it was 
not until a fortnight had elapsed after his funeral that a cousin 


234 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


of his arrived from Ireland, who paid for it honourably, though 
at the same time protesting that he did not in the least believe 
that he ought to do so, as he had a shrewd notion that his rela- 
tive was still alive somewhere on the face of the sea or the land, 
and would turn up one day and repudiate the debt. 

In this belief he sealed up Harold's papers, including Estrild’s 
letter, which for a moment he looked at curiously. 

“ A lady’s hand,” he said, the gleam of a smile in his eyes, 
which vanished in the quick pang which touched his heart as he 
thought of the hopeless waiting of the writer for an answer that 
would never come. 

“ Shall I open this, find her name, and return it to her ? ” he 
asked himself. But, after balancing the letter irresolutely for a 
moment in his hand, he laid it with the others. “ She’ll read of 
the inquest,” he said, as he sealed the packet ; “ that will be 
enough. I’ll not pry into any man’s aifairs, dead or living.” 


And with this he took his departure, and Harold’s chambers 
were left to silence and dusty desolation. 

Yes ; Estrild read the account of the inquest ; and more — she 
heard it daily discussed in Mr. Vicat’s hardest tones, his voice 
like a hammer driving conviction into heart and brain that Har- 
old was dead, and the world for her was empty of love — a melan- 
choly waste through which her life wandered meaningless and 
alone. Yet there rested within her soul a latent disbelief in this 
bitter sorrow ; she was too young — earth could not show her its 
deserts so soon. So day by day she drooped in expectation of 
she knew not what — in sick hope of things dreamt of that never 
came. And through all she was in a maze of doubt, and a fever 
of longing was in her to seize upon the truth even if it brought 
despair. 

In this mood, with thoughts heavy as death, she sought her 
cousin one weary evening, and implored his help. 

“ If you have the power,” she said, looking piteously into his 
wild eyes, “ show me the truth. Let me see Harold, dead or liv- 
ing." 


“ Are you come to me at last ? ” he asked reproachfully. 

He was whiter, thinner, more unearthly than on the day she 
last saw him, and for a moment her own sorrow was chased away 
by the sight of this greater sorrow of youth and life lying beneath 
a deadly blight. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


235 


“ Carrie has kept me away,” Estrild said eaijerly ; ‘‘ she told 
me you were too ill to see me, or I would have come sooner.” 

He looked up with a strangely sad smile. 

“ And you are come now to the soothsayer — not the cousin. 
But what if I cannnot help you ? A gift not used perishes. For 
the last fortnight I have striven to numb my powers. I have 
fought them down, and even denied them.” 

Estrild had come to him in a faith that was half-mi&trust, 
scarcely realising the strength of her sick yearning for his help 
till he spoke thus hopelessly. 

“Why have you done that ? ” she cried, in bitter disappoint- 
ment. 

“ I thought you were like Carrie — afraid of what you could 
not understand. I was anxious not to shock you — for I want a 
friend, not a convert. So I have left books unopened and half- 
tried experiments untouched. To-night I am but a poor helpless 
invalid. You can comfort me ; but I can call upon no occult 
power to comfort you.” 

“ And would it be useless to look in your crystal ?” she asked 
wistfully. 

“Try it, and see,” he answered, as he took it from the cabinet 
and gave it to her. “ How let me hold your other hand.” 

But there was no power in the grasp to-night ; the crystal 
remained dim, silent, dead, and Estrild^s longing eyes gazed down 
into it in vain. At times she fancied she saw within it a faint 
quiver like the trembling of a shadow in water, but all was 
vapoury and uncertain ; and with faith fast vanishing she laid it 
down with a sigh. 

But her cousin did not relinquish her hand ; and as he held it 
in his tightened clasp she was dimly conscious' of a subtle change 
in the touch of his fevered palm. It was a hand now all human, 
speaking, as it were, through her veins a piteous, inarticulate, 
human cry for companionship, and for something greater, 
stronger than friendliness — it was a touch that pleaded in dumb 
agony for love. 

As a flush rose slowly in Estrild^s face, so did he slowly relin- 
quish his hold of her white hand, till it fell by her side as though 
for a moment rendered powerless by the mingled flame of pain, 
longing, and fear that had passed from his passionate veins to 
hers. 

For just an instant he kept silent, the shadow of some great 


236 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


emotion quivering over his pale face ; then it passed, and he 
spoke as though no fire had risen between him and her in the 
silence of that thrilling touch. 

“You see, as I told you, my power is gone. I have beaten it 
down, and it is numb and dumb ; there is no magic in the 
crystal to-night. 

“But will it not come again Estrild asked in eager anxiety. 

“Do you wish for itT he said. “ Are you not afraid of such 
things, and is it not fear and repugnance that made you hold 
aloof from me f’ 

“I heard you were ill, and I did not like to trouble you with 
my grief, she answered, as her eyes filled with teara 

“ And now you come to me as to a poor magician, hoping to 
quell your grief. I wish I had the power,” he added quickly. 
“ If it would bring you comfort, I would make myself a veritable 
sorcerer if I could. But there is no sorcery in these things — 
they are all natural ; only so few strive to know them — fear 
holds them back; and I thought you were, like Carrie, shaken 
with dread, and filled with a sort of compassionate hatred for 
the sorry wizard who dared to drag from earth and air and trem- 
bling flesh a few of the secrets they hold.” 

“ I am not afraid for myself ; I only feared for you when I saw 
you faint and ill. If it was by some natural power that that 
vision came into the crystal, then was what I saw and heard 
true ? Does Harold live T' 

Her voice rang through his heart like the agonised cry of a 
creature in deadly peril imploring help and succour. Involun- 
tarily he stretched out his hand as one does to one who is falling 
or drowning ; but he drew it back quickly, clenching it and rest- 
ing on it as though he needed the support himself that he dared 
not offer to her. 

•“ If T were to say it was all a delusion, and her lover was dead, 
it would be better for her, better for me.” 

This was his thought, coming upon him in a breath of fire ; 
but he quenched it, and looked at her steadily and gravely. 

“ The crystal could not reflect what is non-existent ; the vision 
in it was true.” 

Her eyes were on his face — she saw he believed what he said ; 
but her own belief was shaken. 

“ Oh, I cannot think it true,” she said, “ unless you will show 
it to me again 1” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


237 


“ She does not count the cost to me/^ he thought painfully ; 
but he smiled at her as he spoke. “ Give me a week, and you 
«hall have your wish.” 

He saw the quick breath of relief she drew — he saw the flash 
af hope in her eyes, and his own drooped over his inward pain. 

“ For news of her lover she will come to me, and still think of 
me with shrinking repugnance, half deeming me a wizard.” 

“A week is a long while ; could it not be sooner Estrild 
said. 

“A fortnight was longer,” he answered ; “yet you did not 
deem it so.” 

“ Oh, how could I think of you in such a time of agony T she 
cried. 

“ No, you could not ; and I am used to being forgotten. Now 
let us talk of other things. Are you happier here than you 
were 1 ” 

“ How can I be happier in the anguish of this suspense ? I 
am dying of it daily. Oh, you cannot dream of what I am suf- 
fering ! ” 

“ I know something of suffering too,” he. said quietly. “ But 
I want you not to talk of pain. It will lengthen the week,” he 
added, half smiling. 

She flushed a little, and turned away her eyes from the sight 
of his pale face. 

“ I will talk of what you please — of anything that will do you 
good.” 

“ It will please me to hear that you do not find this place so 
ugly and wretched as you first thought it.” 

“ Well, I do think better of it.” Estrild said ; “ for Carrie is 
always kind and helpful, and aunt is good, and the children are 
not always fighting. But Mr. Yicat is hateful, and ugly as ever. 
You do not expect me to change my opinion of him ? I beg your 
pai don — I always forget he is your father.” 

“ I wish I could forget it,” he answered. “ I suppose he is 
kind to you ? He would be that for his own sake, to further his 
own plans ; but do not let any simulated kindness on his part de- 
ceive you. Be on your guard always against him. Now I must 
show you the portrait of my mother as a sort of antidote,” he 
added, with his melancholy smile. “ I cannot let you hate both 
my parents.” 

He unlocked a drawer in his cabinet and took out a case, which 


238 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


he opened 9 and Estrild saw that it contained four minatures ; 
but he covered one hastily with his thin hand, holding it in such 
a way that she saw only the three others. 

“ This is my mother,” he said a little eagerly, and with natural 
pride in the loveliness of the portrait. “ And this is your father 
— her brother. Both those portraits were taken at Langarth 
before her marriage.” 

Estrild gazed at the pictures with a pang at the heart. She 
had never seen a likeness of her father in early youth. Was it 
possible he ever had a face as joyous as this — so young — so like 
Tristram’s ? It gave her a little shock of surprise akin to re- 
morse to have him brought before her eyes in his youth. She 
had never thought of him as young — it is the lot of parents 
always to be old to their children ; and now she saw that he too 
had had youth and love and sorrow like herself. 

But she did not speak of him or of Tristram ; her heart was 
too full to utter their names. 

“ Your mother has a lovely face,” she said to her cousin. “But 
who is this beautiful child with the golden hair and the happy 
blue eyes ? ” 

Gilbert looked at her curiously. 

“ Surely you can guess whose likeness it was, and is not now ? ” 
he said, in a low voice. “ Is it so very different from the one I 
showed you on your first visit ? ” 

“ Is it possible ? Can it be yours ?” she exclaimed ; and then, 
ashamed of her own surprise, she checked herself and said no 
more. 

“ Ifc was painted long before the blow that made me a crip- 
ple,” he answered. “ Do not look at it. I shall put it away 
now.” 

He rose on saying this, and in doing so moved his hand from 
the picture it hid ; and then Estrild saw that it was a copy of 
the old portrait at Langarth. 

“ I am sorry you have seen this,” he said. “I was afraid it 
would startle you. My mother painted it from the ancient port- 
rait before she left home. She copied too the Arabic words at 
the back. Shall I show them to you 

“ Of what use will it be since I cannot read them ? ” returned 
Estrild. 

“ But I have a translation of them,” he answered ; and, lifting 
the minature from the case, he drew forth a thin slip of paper, 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


239 


on which, in a woman^s hand, were written these doggrel 
lines — 

“ When Cumberland and Cornwall meet, 

When bane is bliss and bitter sweet, 

When man than horse shall prove more fleet, 

And the rider lose, yet the race be won ; 

When hate by love shall be outdone, 

This curse I leave shall be outrun, 

And it and I 
Together die, 

The doom of Carbonellis cease. 

My unblest spirit rest in peace.” 

“ What nonsense are you reading there ? ” cried an unexpected 
voice. 

And there was Carrie standing before them, with an angry 
flush on her cheeks, though laughter was in her eyes. 

“ It is the translation Mary Armstrong made of the Arabic 
writing in the old Langarth picture of the Black Rider — the man 
who brings death to th% house,’’ said Gilbert. 

“ I should have thought Mary Armstrong had more sense than 
to write such contradictory rubbish,” returned Carrie contempt- 
uously. “ There is not a single assertion in that prophecy that 
can come to pass.” 

“ It was not intended to come to pass by the writer. He en- 
graved it on the wall of the dungeon in bitter irony, that his 
brother might know his hatred would never cease, and his aveng- 
ing spirit would haunt his descendants to their death through 
all time.” 

As Gilbert spoke, Carrie glanced at Estrild ; her eyes were 
bright and dilated, her face was flushed, her lips were a little 
apart and trembling. The girl’s own face flushed slightly with 
that sort of fear which is half-anger. 

“ So you two amuse yourselves with such stories as that, do 
you ?” she said — ‘‘ Black Riders who carry death-warrants, ghosts 
who have stalked out of dungeons, prophecies of impossibilities, 
and ” 

“ Oh, Carrie, don’t !” cried Estrild, interrupting her in trem- 
bling accents, with a hot hand upon her arm. “Your laughter 
only fills me with horror ; for we all die through that man’s hate. 
My, father, my brother — are they not both gone 1 It is true, 
Carrie, he rides to Langarth and kills us with his presence.” 


240 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Carrie shook ofif her hand angrily. 

“ If you are not mad/^ she said, “ to believe such things is the 
wsLy to get crazed ; and, as for that man, he is no ghost — he is 
alive and in the flesh. 

‘‘ My dear Carrie,^’ expostulated Estrild, “ that is impossible ; 
this portrait is copied from a very ancient one at Langarth.” 

“ Nonsense !’’ persisted Carrie. “ It is the likenes of the man 
who came here and advised mother to go to Cornwall. I recog- 
nised him at once, though his portrait is taken in some queer old 
fancy dress.” 

She leaned over to look at it, and then Gilbert seized her arm. 

“Oh, Carrie, what have you done? Why did you tell her 
tliat r 

Then Carrie turned, and saw that Estrild was white as snow, 
and had clasped both her hands upon her forehead as if striving 
to shut out some dreadful sight. 

“ There is no dealing with you two !” exclaimed Carrie pas- 
sionately. “You, with your wizard tricks, Gilbert, have nearly 
frightened me to death ; and now, I suppose, Estrild ” 

“No, Carrie, I will not frighten you,” Estrild said. “For a 
moment I was startled, because your mother said at Langarth 
that this man had come to her, and I thought some chance like- 
ness had deceived her ; but now that you make the same asser- 
tion, I am obliged to believe it.” 

“Well, and canT you believe it without being scared out of 
your wits ?” exclaimed practical Carrie. “ There’s no need to 
think the man a ghost because of his likeness to a ghastly old 
picture that ought to be burnt and forgotten.” 

“ If I were you, Carrie, and had liv^ed your life, I should per- 
haps think and talk as you do ; but ray experience gives me 
other feelings. Let the matter rest now ; I will not discuss it 
with you.” 

In saying this Estrild closed the case, and Carrie, seeing she 
wa.s in earnest, shrugged her shoulders in silence. Neither she 
nor Gilbert, as he replaced the miniature in the cabinet, per- 
ceived that Estrild had retained the slip of paper bearing Mary 
Armstrong’s writing. 

Carrie went to the door, bidding him an abrupt good-night, 
and waited there impatiently for Estrild to follow. 

“ Remember your promise,” she whispered, holding his pale 
thin hand between both hers, forgetting he had a man’s heart, 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


241 


and thinking of him only as the poor medium through whoso 
occult power she might again see some vapoury vision of her lost 
lover. 

He smiled into her beautiful face sadly. 

“ In a week/' he whispered back ; “ but this must be a secret 
between you and me." 

By his glance towards his sister, Estrild understood she must 
be silent to Carrie, and, with a pressure of her hand as she let 
his go, she gave him a promise of secrecy. 

Left alone, he leaned his face forward on his hand, pressing 
his lips on the one she had touched, and all his frame quivered 
with a mad joy, which in an instant changed into a bitterness 
like unto death. 

* * * * * * 

The week of waiting was nearly over, when one morning Car- 
rie burst into the dingy back-parlor with her face brighter than 
usual. 

“ I am a better prophet than Gilbert !" she cried. “ Here is 
the letter I predicted in your tea cup. It is blai&k enough out- 
side ; I hope it is white within." 

“ It is from my cousin Pleasance !" said Estrild, seizing it 
eagerly. 

“ Is she a wholesome cousin, with a sound heart in her ?" 
asked Carrie dubiously. “ For my part, I should like to abolish 
cousins — they do a world of mischief. I am glad you have not 
been near Gilbert for nearly a week. I am very fond of him ; 
but, for all that, I don’t like a man to have dealings with the 
devil ; and Tom is quite right in ordering me to keep away from 
him." 

Estrild looked up for an instant from her letter. 

“ Superstition makes you cruel, Carrie." 

“ Superstition !" exclaimed Carrie. “ Come, now, I admire 
that word from you, of all people." 

‘‘You believe in tea-leaves and omens, and you have a dream- 
book at this moment in your pocket." 

“ Good healthy beliefs," said Carrie, blushing a little. “ And 
have not the tea-leaves spoken truly 1 You have got your let- 
ter." 

Estrild had turned the page of the second sheet of the large 
letter-paper ; her face wore a deeper look of pain and grief than 
even these last weeks of anxiety and suspense had settled on it. 


242 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 




** Oh, Carrie, Harold must indeed b6 dead ! There is no news 
of him or of Daniel at Langarth. The Curlew has returned, and 
Michael came to Pleasance as she was finishing her letter, and 
entreated her to ask me if I had heard from either of them. 
Carrie, how shall I live through this anguish of suspense ? What 
shall I do — what can I do to solve this mystery ? 

‘‘ Come with me and see Mary Armstrong,’’ said Carrie. “ She 
returned to London yesterday. There’s a strong armful of help 
in that queer girl.” 

“ See the daughter of the man who shielded an assassin ! No, 
Carrie — I cannot do that.” 

‘‘You would rather go to Gilbert and peep into the devil’s 
looking-glass ! ” said Carrie, in anger. “ ^ ei), go if you like ; 
you’ll get no good by it. 1 told you there was a black spot in 
your letter ; you ought to believe me more than you do him.” 

Carrie’s superstition was all of the vulgar and commonplace 
order, and it never caused her discomfort, whereas the mysteries 
on which Gilbert touched filled her with horror. 

“ It is only a black spot,” she continued, “and it will pass 
away. It’s just mourning — that’s all. My goodness, if Tom 
were dead, poor fellow, I should cry my eyes out ; but I should 
wipe them at last and comfort myself. And that is what you 
ought to do.” 

Estrild was not listening, With dry eager eyes she was read- 
ing the details Pleasance gave — that Michael had given to her of 
Harold’s last evening on board the Curlew. So now she knew it 
was for her sake he had risked his life, and perhaps lost it — for 
her sake he had ventured into some dreadful den in search of the 
assassin who had shot Tristram, and it was here maybe he had 
met his death. Or was it — could it be possible— -that he had 
found that murderer, and that he and Daniel were now held in 
some secret place in bondage by him and his companions ? 

Tormented by fear, doubt, and all the anguish of her great 
love, is it strange that, when a tiny messenger brought her a slip 
of paper on which was written, “ Come to-night, when all is still 
— I shall be ready at one o’clock,” her heart leaped thankfully, 
and she resolved to keep the appointment thus made ? No 
thought of its imprudence struck her. She never thought of 
Gilbert or of herself ; all her soul was fixed on Harold — she crav- 
ed only for news of him, even from the occult and unknown 
world with which her soothsayer cousin dealt 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


243 


The household was asleep, silence reigned everywhere, save 
for the distant rumble of late wheels, when with beating heart 
and quiet step she sought her cousin’s sitting-room. A low fire 
was burning in the grate, a pung: nt odour filled the room, 
mingled with a light smoke like a faint cloud of incense. Through 
this, as it appeared to her, Gilbert held out his hand to welcome 
her ; but he did not speak. On the contrary, he put his finger 
on his lip for silence and motioned her to a seat beside him. 
Then she looked into his face and saw it attenuated and pale ex- 
cept for a hectic spot, as though a burning finger had toucl.ed 
him on either cheek. It was on her lips to say, “ You have 
fasted horribly ; ” but she refrained, because of his continued ges- 
ture of sileuce. On a small table before her stood a lamp, with 
its light lowered to dimness, and beside it lay the two crystals, 
and a slip of paper on which was written, “ We must not speak 
until the experiment is over. Keep your nerve/’ 

Estrild read this and bowed her head in grave acquiescence. 
She was conscious of no fear, but only of an eager longing to see, 
to hear, to know. 

Her right hand was still held fast in Gilbert’s ; his left hand 
passed over her face once, twice, thrice, and she fell into a dream 
— another phase of existence came upon her. She was no longer 
in the close room with clouds of incense rising round and about 
her ; she was on the deck of a ship in the mid^t of a calm sea, the 
blue of which seemed to glow in the blaze of a terrible sun. 
Hound about the gangway stood a small crowd with heads un- 
covered, and amidst them a shrouded figure lying prone and help- 
less, its every line dumbly, awfully proclaiming death. 

Then, amid the stillness, to Estrild’s ear a slight murmur arose, 
which gradually resolved itself into the sound of a single voice, 
faint and low, as though afar oflf, although she seemed to be 
standing among them close by the speaker, striving eagerly to 
look at the shrouded face of the dead man. 

“We therefore commit his body to the deep, to be turned into cor- 
ruption, looking for the resurrection of the body, when the sea shall give 
up her dead.” 

Jjjstrild saw the falling of the corpse into the waves ; but she 
heard no more. A sound like the crash of thunder awoke her 
from her trance ; she shrieked aloud. Gilbert had let go her 
hand, and was standing confronting his father in speechless 
terror. Mr. Vicat stood at the door, which he had flung open 


244 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


violently ; his face was bloodless, and his eyes shone out of it 
bright with the fire of a vindictive triumph. 


CHAPTER XXXIT. 

Far away at sea this great ship lay becalmed, her mainsails 
for it was idle to set them when not a breath stirred the air, not 
a cloud crossed the sky. It was blue as sapphire, and the sea 
bluer still, upon whose unchanged surface there ran no ripple 
longer than a lady’s finger ; though a long, wide, heaving swell 
moved the mass of waters, as though some great storm, dying 
leagues away, spent here its last majestic strength. 

Round about in the clear distance lay a little fleet of ships 
standing motionless as on a glassy ocean, and silent as though 
all life within them had fainted into death in the cruel sun. 
These were merchant-ships bound for India, which the great fri- 
gate and the sloop of war a mile ahead were convoying safely on 
their way — a hateful task to men thirsting for battle, who 
deemed that every day’s sail bore them farther from the enemy 
Avhose cannon they longed to face. 

In the quiet stifling monotony of the present calm even a 
funeral had some excitement in it for weary men ; and, as a 
silent procession moved to the gangway, those who took no part 
in it looked on with interest, and stood uncovered, and listened 
reverently to the solemn words that rang out into the clear still 
air ; then for an instant the voice ceased, and on the silence 
there broke a sound that quivered on the heart ; and all men 
knew the dead had gone down to his grave in the sea. 

Below, on the middle deck, a sick man, sleeping, moved un- 
easily in his hammock ; and with eyes still closed he clutched at 
a kind hand touching his, as though seized with a spasm of ter- 
ror or of pain. Then, awakening suddenly with a start, he gazed 
wildly into the face bending over him. 

“ Who shrieked ?” he cried. “ What lady is come aboard 1 
Daniel, as I live, I swear I heard Estrild’s voice !” 

“ Dear lad, you are wandering still,’' said Daniel, soothingly. 
“The sound you heard was the body of that whisht creetur 
Trevel dropping into the sea. I am glad he is gone ; he did but 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


245 


torment you with his half- told confessions, which I reckon were 
mostly lies.” 

“ Ah, Daniel — and his secret is gone down into the sea with 
him !” 

“ No, no — not all of it. You remember, as we leaned over 
him, and caught his last breath, he lifted his hand feebly and 
said, ‘An accident — as I hope for mercy, only an accident.’ 
There, dear lad — those were his dying words ; you must be con- 
tent with them — ^you must seek to know no more.” 

“ Then Daniel, I may as well give up life. The woman I love 
has forsaken me because of this maddening mystery, and unless 
I clear it up I shall see her face no more.” 

“ What’s a maiden’s word ?” returned Daniel. “ By this time, 
now her grief is spent a bit, she is repenting, and her heart is 
calling out for you every hour of the day.” 

“ Do you think so V* Harold asked, with a feeble hope. “ I 
fear there is no relenting in a resolve so fixed as hers ; she is 
bound by a promise, Daniel, to the dead.” 

“ And by a promise to the living too,” said Daniel cheerfully. 
“ Bless my heart, my son, are you nobody, that you think she 
can send you away out of her life like a straw floating on the 
wind ?” 

“Not so lightly as that, Daniel ; I have faith in her love still 
Now why did she come to Trevel’s funeral ?” he asked, and his 
voice shook with sudden fear again. 

“You are roadli ng [wandering] a bit, my son and Daniel 
passed his cool hand soothingly over the sick man’s brow. I 
reckon it ain’t possible in natur’ for a lady to walk over a thous- 
and miles of sea, and then vanish like a breath ; not but what 
I’m ready enough to awn there’s things in the airth that we can’t 
measure with a six-fathom line o’ rope. So may-be she have come 
to ’ee in a dream like, just to bring ’ee a croomb of comfort.” 

“ A dream !” repeated Harold. “ Well, it might be ; but it 
was vivid as reality. I saw her, plainly, Daniel, except her 
right hand — that was hidden as in a cloud ; on her left she still 
wore my ring.” 

Daniel was silent ; his face was grave, and he strove to hide it 
from his friend. 

“ I know what you are thinking of,” Harold said presently. 
“ But she is not dead, Daniel — it was no ghost I saw.” 

“ Well, sonny boy that’s cheering,” resumed Daniel, treating 


246 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Harold in his weakness as if he were a child. “ Now you can 
sleep and dream of her again if you will.’^ 

“ No ; I want to talk’ I must tell you of something I have on 
my mind. Daniel, when I saw her in my dream, I knew she 
thought I was dead, and it was my body she saw launched into 
the deep. I struggled, I fought as against a legion to tell her I 
was living ; but at the instant TreveFs corpse struck the water 
she shrieked, and darkness fell betv/een me and her, and she was 
gone.” 

‘‘Well, I don’t say as the dream edn’t queer ; but in faiver 
dreams are uncommon cur’ous at times. And you know you fell 
asleep with whisht thoughts of Trevel in your mind, having 
heerd he was to be buried this mornin’.” 

Harold did not contradict this, but the painful look of anxiety 
on his face did not pass away through Daniel’s arguments. 

“ I cannot understand the conviction I have,” he said uneasily ; 
“ but I know and feel she believes me dead. Who can tell what 
will happen if her belief is strengthened in some strange way 
unknown to us? She is in bad hands Daniel.” 

“Well, yes,” said Daniel unwillingly; Mr. Yicat is a poor 
Christian, I do fear ; but his wife is a good lady.” 

“There is no help in her, Daniel; my poor darling would 
appeal to her in vain.” 

Dai>iel was silent ; he searched about his big heart for v/ords 
of consolation, but could find none. It was filled with an infinite 
pity for the poor brave boy, as he called Harold, who had been 
so ruthlessly seized and driven into fever, and was now dragged 
across the ocean, leaving his love ignorant of his fate. Daniel’s 
compassion rose often in his throat, chocking back speech, so 
Harold was used to his silence. It was enough for him that he 
was there by his side, ready to help and cheer when needful. 

A little time went by, and then a slight rustle broke the still- 
ness — it was as though the ship had quivered as an aspen-tree 
does when its pale loaves feel the coming wind. 

“ Here’s the breeze at last 1’^ cried Daniel joyously. “Now 
this will drive away dreams and faiver, and you’ll be on your legs 
again soon, like a man,” 

“ Shall we touch anywhere soon ? Will there be a chance to 
write ? ” asked Harold anxiously. 

Before Daniel could answer, Joe thrust the sail aside which 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


247 


shielded the hospital from the rest of the deck, and displayed a 
face alight with excitement. 

“ The sloop is sigi^alling to us to crowd all sail. The French 
fleet is ahead, and we shall have a fight. Lor, Mr. Olver, how I 
do wish you was well enough to be in it ! But, there, you shall 
have my share of the prize-money — I promise 'ee that.’^ 

The men did not laugh ; to win a battle was a foregone con- 
clusion always with a British sailor. To be beaten by French- 
men was one of the impossibilities of the sea which never entered 
into his calculation. 

The prospect of a fight sets even sick veins tingling, and Har- 
old started up in his hammock with a new strength in him. 

“ Daniel, if there is a battle. I’ll not lie here to be shot like a 
dog in his kennel. I’ll stand to a gun while there’s life in me to 
hold up.” 

‘‘ Steady now ! ” said Daniel. ‘‘ I reckon we are more likely 
to run than to tight. They merchantmen haven’t no stomach for 
a battle ; they’re stufled full of riches, which they’re bound to 
save if they can. ’Tis poor men love the smell of powder, not 
rich wauns.” 

‘‘ I shall be shaamed to show my faace to hoam if we run afore 
Frenchees,” said Joe, in indignation ; “ it ain’t likely sich a thing 
will happen to we.” 

The great ship creaked and quivered as sail after sail was 
crowded on her masts, and now, as they caught the freshening 
breeze, she sprang forward like a thing of life ; and the rush of 
her course through the waves was as the sound of a thousand 
horses dashing into battle. 

Harold flung himself back on his pillow with his new strength 
gone, while a blank look of dismay settled itself on Joe’s young 
face, and Daniel’s looked grave and wliite. 

‘‘We be showing ’em a clean pair of heels, sure ’nough,” he 
said. “ I reckon we’re outnumbered — ten to waun perhaps.” 

“ Go on deck, Daniel, I entreat you, and bring me back word,” 
said Harold feverishly. 

Daniel went, while Joe, looking after him, dashed his hand 
across his eyes to hide the tears of rage that had risen in them. 

“ Ten to waun ! ” he exclaimed. “Well, what if we be? ’Tis 
fair odds enough, considerin’ w’e be English agin’ French.” 

“You must count guns, Joe, not men,” said Harold, with a 
faint smile, “ French guns are as good as English ones.” 


248 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


No, Fm darned if they be !” returned J oe sturdily. There’s 
flesh and blood and grit behind our guns ; and there’s only skin 
and bone and fright behind theirs. Lor, what’s that 1 Is it 
lightning ?” ' 

The heavy boom of a gun whose flash he had seen answered 
him ; and now the boy flung up his hands in delight. 

“ I knowed we shouldn’t run ! Whoever heerd of a British 
ship running afore a French fleet? Now they’ll cotch it hot, I 
reckon, and we shall have frogs for breakfis’.” 

“ Clear decks for action !” cried a stentorian voice. 

The order rang through all ears like a trumpet, and was 
obeyed with a swiftness past words to tell. 

The low fever that had settled on Harold’s veins left him as 
by some magic touch of healing. He sprang from his hammock, 
and dressed himself with hurried hands, and, in that superhuman 
strength that excitement lends, he stood by a gun, and worked 
like a giant. 

Joe kept by him, handing powder till he was black, and even 
through the thunder of the guns his shouts of delight and his 
quaint remarks brought a smile on the men’s faces. 

The French frigate that had fired the first gun now came to 
close action. Bight between her and the ’fleet of merchantmen 
she and her sister-ships had hoped to capture dashed the gallant 
little sloop. Swinging round in the wind like a bird with wide 
white wings, she brought her guns to bear, and poured a raking 
fire upon her enemy. The great French ship seemed to stagger 
beneath the blow, and her cannon answered wildly, their shots 
falling wide of the mark and dropping harmlessly into the sea. 
In vain the four great French liners near by strove in the light 
wind to come to her aid. Their huge unwieldy hulls showed 
bristling lines of fire which were but wasted on the waves, as the 
sails flapped on their tall masts or brought them slowly onwards, 
while the brisk sloop tacked and turned, and sent forth flame 
upon flame, followed by shots that fell with telling certainty. 

The English frigate had dropped firing on her first enemy, 
leaving her to the sloop, while, slowly tacking, she sent a broad- 
side against the ponderous ships bearing down upon her amid 
smoke and flame and the deafening roar of their great guns. 

Suddenly in the midst of the din a cheer rose which shook the 
troubled air. The French frigate had lowered her flag to the 
sloop ! Was it true, or was it a good British shot that had 


^’ROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


249 


brought it down, and would it be run up again to the mast-head • 
bj brave French hands 'I 

While eyes peered anxiously through the smoke, and this 
question passed voiceless from heart to heart, a strange thing 
happened. The four French line-of-battle ships, drawing ever 
nearer, ceased their fire suddenly, then tacked, turned, and fled. 
The disabled frigate hastened to follow, and the sloop, as though 
bewildered by what she saw, let her go silently eCway. 

Gradually the smoke cleared and the sun shone down upon the 
battle-field of waters. Then was seen the reason for the French 
flight. In the offing, standing out majestic against the sky, rode 
the English fleet, the great admiral’s pennant streaming out from 
the foremast like a defiance to the world. 

“ It is Nelson’s ship, the Victory — and men shook hands 
with each other, and eyes blazed and shone between laughter and 
tears, and every heart beat high with the hope and joy of com 
ing battle. 

How calm, how quiet, how fearless the gallant ships looked, 
as with wide silent wings they bore down upon the retreating 
defences of France ! But from the first the pursuit was hope- 
less ; the French ships had the wind with them now, and they 
flew like birds into the dim clouds. 

Then a certain ship separated herself from the English fleet, 
and drew near to ask for details of the short sharp battle whose 
din and roar had drawn them thither. On her deck was drawn 
up a red line of British soldiers, from whose ranks there burst 
a cheer as the two ships came within hailing distance. 

Harold heard the cheer, but scarcely heeded it. He was in 
the cockpit, bending over poor Joe, who was badly wounded. 
All around lay the victims of war ; pain was lord of this hour, 
blood was everywhere, and, amid cries and groans, the snrgeon 
and assistant were doing roughly a gory work. 

“ Save me ” whispered J oe, clutching at Harold’s arm. “ They 
want to cut oflf my leg ; but I’d sooner die than let ’em chop me 
to pieces as thty are them other poor chaps.” 

“ The Army doctor from the ship that has troops aboard is 
coming over to help us,” said Daniel, in a low voice. “We’ll 
keep those rough fellows from you, Joe, if we can, till he is 
here.” 

“ This is not a pressing case,” said Harold to the assistant- 
surgeon, who was but an apprentice. “ It can wait.” 


250 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


“Very well,” returned that incompetent young man, turning 
away gladly. 

And so it happened that Joe's leg was saved ; and the pale 
quiet surgeon who now dressed the wound looked up after the 
last bandage was on, and stared earnestly into Harold's face. 

“Good heavens, Giver, what are you doing here?” he cried. 

“Is it you, Pemberton V exclaimed Harold, leaning against a 
bunk in utter exhaustion. “ I am thankful to see some one who 
recognizes me. I am supposed here to be a deserter from his 
Majesty's service ; and, if I had not been struck down by fever, 
I should at this minute be in irons.” 

“ Surely you are romancing 1” returned the other in amaze- 
ment. 

“We was all seized by a press-gang — me and uncle and Mr. 
Giver,” broke in Joe ; “and we was took aboard ship like thieves 
in handcuffs, and a scamp who's drowned now swore, Mr. Giver 
wasn't hisself, but a fellow caaled Bill Rough’un oi^some out- 
landish name. That's how it was, sir, and I don’t mind now, 
because I've seen a fight. Gnly uncle ought to have been put 
ashore at Falmouth ; but the Captain he had sealed orders, and 
when he opened 'em he said he couldn’t do it.” 

“ And no harm done, my son, since I was glad to bide with 
Mr. Giver when he was so bad with the faiver.” 

“ I believe I should have gone overboard w.th Trevel but for 
you, Daniel,” said Harold. 

“ You are fit only for hospital now,” observed his friend Pem- 
berton. “ Come with me ; I shall speak to the Captain at once.” 

When Harold, thin, pale, and ghastly from fatigue and wast- 
ing fever, appeared on the quarter-deck, attired still in Martin's 
sailor-clothes, there was a slight commotion ; but his old friena 
Pemberton was by his side, and beside the first lieutenant of the 
ship stood his still older friend Colonel Pemberton And, when 
this gentleman, with a cry of recognition and surprise, rushed 
forward and grasped his hand, the drama was complete, and 
there was nothing further to be done but to treat the afi'air as a 
sort of blundering joke, and with somewhat awkward apologies 
restore the supposed deserter to his rightful position. But this 
did not smootli down the annoyance felt on both sides, so that, 
when Colonel Pemberton proposed that Harold should come on 
board the troop-ship, it was hailed as a relief from a disagreeable 
dilemma. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


251 


The fleet of merchantmen was to be convoyed safely to tho 
Cape, and here Daniel was assured of a free passage in some ship 
bound for England. J oe the Captain of the frigate would not 
part with, so Harold had to say good-bye to both his staunch 
friends. 

I would not leave you, Daniel,” he said, ‘‘ but for my resolve 
to accept the cadetship offered me, and go on to India.” 

“You are chasing a ghost, Mr. Olver,” returned Daniel. “It 
would be wiser to come home from the Cape with me.” 

“ To what end, Daniel — still to And a fixed horror on 
Estrild’s mind, destroying her happiness and my own — again to 
make myself a wanderer, with less chance of success than I have 
now ? ” 

“ Where’s your chance, Mr. Olver Trevel’s dead — you can’t 

fish his secret up from the sea or hunt it down on the land.” 

“ On Indian ground I hope to find it Daniel. Reflect on what 
Trevel said when you were watching him ? ” 

“ The man was raving, sir ; and mad words wouldn’t hang a 
rat ! ” 

“But he spoke of India,” persisted Harold. “ He kept crying 
out, ‘I never touched the pistol ! The hand that fired it is safe 
in India. Wrecked? No, no ; water won’t drown him nor fire 
burn him. He shall hang unless I get the money I want. Let 
me go, I say, that I may travel on to him that thinks he’s dead, and 
let him know he’s living ! ’ Now, Daniel, have I. correctly stated 
his words or not ? ” concluded Harold pleadingly. 

“ They are true as print,” said Daniel, shaking his head sor- 
rowfully ; “ but they don’t prove nothing.” 

“ They prove this,” cried Harold eagerly — “ that by some 
means unknown to us — all the crew of the Aleri being dead, now 
Trevel is gone — Captain Armstrong succeeded in saving the 
assassin of Tristram Carbonellis. And that man is now in India, 
and I go there to find him ! ” 

“ Well, Mr. Olver, I can’t stop you,” said Daniel gravely ; 
“ but I want you to bear waun thing in mind. When Trevel 
brain was clear, and his soul was leaving him — which I hope is 
saved — he unsaid all his mad words in that waun clear speech — 
• All accident, as I hope for mercy ! ’ Mr. Olver, you must put 
:hat down in your note-book ’long with the rest, and remember 
it when you lay your hand on that unfort’nate man, and forgive 
him 1 ” 


252 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


Harold’s face flashed a little. 

“ That is impossible, Daniel. How can I forgive what ruins 
mj life and blights a better and fairer life than mine? Let me 
place one point more before you — I was desperately ill, and you 
can ^nswer it better than I can. Through all his ravings was 
not this fact clear — that Trevel was on his way to some near and 
rich relative of the fugitive assassin to sell to him his secret when 
you and I seized him. ” 

“ It was clear, Mr. Olver ; I won’t deny it. But a man like 
Trevel would as lief sell a lie for money as the truth. How, Mr. 
Olver, ’tis time to part ; and may God bless you in your sarch, 
though ’tis wilder than chasing the Flying Dutchman 

“O'vn one thing more, Daniel,” cried Harold, grasping his 
hand nervously — ‘ ‘ Captain Armstrong saved that man before his 
ship was wrecked ? ” 

“Yes, sir ; I reckon he did ; and all our risks and dangers 
were run in vain. Well, we are here alive, and Michael have 
goet the Curlew hoam safe by now, so there’s much to be thank- 
ful for. You’ll send me news, sir, the first cli nee you have ?” 

“And let me hear from you too, Daniel, and tell me how poor 
little Joe gets on,” said Harold, as he scratched an Indian ad- 
dress in his good friend’s huge pocket-book. 

A few more last words, a tender look on Joe’s sleeping face, 
and these two parted who had stood by each other through storm 
and danger and battle. Leaning over the bulwarks, Daniel 
watched the gig row away with Harold and his friends, and saw 
the big troop ship receive them and cover them from his sight. 

He waved his brown hand towards the filling sails, and went 
below with a shadow on his bronzed face and an unwonted tre- 
mor of his stout heart. 

“ It’s a long cry to India. His eyes may never shine into my 
eyes again. And he’s gone on the whishtest errand a man can 
take upon himself. Whoever heerd of a ghost being hunted 
down, and laid hould of, and shook to pieces in the broad day- 
light — and in India too, among the blacks, where no Christian 
ghost would ever walk ? Ho, no ; the Langarth spirit will be 
laid at Langarth, or haunt the place for ever. Mr. Tristram died 
— as all his family die — in mystery. And what it means Mr. 
Olver won’t find out among heathens 1 ” 


FllOxM THE OTHER SIDE. 


253 


CHAPTER XXXY. 

It was well perhaps for Harold that he was among friends 
now who knew all the history of Ids earliest, freshest years, and 
nothing of the circumstances of these later ones which had con- 
nected him with Langarth, So he had perforce to be silent over 
the mystery that tormented him, and give his speech and 
Ids thoughts to other topics. Tlds was good for him ; and better 
still was the fact that he was no longer galled by the miseries 
and cruelties under which he had suffered through the brutalities 
of a press-gang, and no longer had his fevered nerves heated by 
an insulting disbelief in all his statements as to his own identity. 

It is a curious experience for a man to be told he is not him- 
self ; and to be told it with an addition of jeers and insults and 
irons is more than sufficient to put him in a fever, without star- 
vation and bad air being throwm in as helps,’' said his friend 
Doctor Pemberton. “But now, old fellow, you have got to 
spend your energies in getting well.” 

And this Harold did, regaining his health so rapidly that in a 
week or two all the time of fever and depression would have 
seemed to him like a dream — mixed as it was with delirium — 
but for the memory of Trevel’s words and Trevel’s death. This 
was with him always, and these recollections were the dark wings 
which were bearing him to India. 

On board the ship as passenger was Colonel Pemberton's 
brother, an East India director, and a man so high in office that 
he was able at once to bestow’ on Harold a commission in the 
Company’s service. He was glad to accept this for many 
reasons. It would give him position, profession, and money, 
and all three would aid him in his plans. It would be months 
before he could draw means from his own modest resources ; and 
meanwhile he would be dependent on his friends — a position he 
could not brook. So he accepted the career of a soldier as a 
necessity thrust upon him by the strange set of circumstances 
that had followed on his attempt to wring from Trevel the secret 
he had carried down with him into his fathomless grave. 

Yet on the whole he felt he had acted wisely when, on shore 
for a day or two at the Cape, he posted his first long letter to 
Estrild, filled with a recital of much that had passed, and with 
entreaties not to be forgotten or forsaken in his enforced absence. 
His own love was like a rock unshaken, and he would return to 


254 


FROM THE OTHER SIDF^ 


claim her and to release her from that sorrowful promise to her 
brother which had separated them for a time. 

No letter is satisfactory, for hearts do not live and beat in ink, 
and all a lover’s yearning, rushing with passion through his veins, 
could not warm tlie dead paper. So Harold thought his letter 
dumb and cold, and he posted it with a painful foreboding of 
sorrow. 

At the Cape, too, Harold saw Daniel again for a few hours, 
and charged him with messages for Pleasance and presents for 
Estrild. 

“ Look here,” said Daniel — “you don’t mean this for Michael, 
do ’ee? I found it in the pocket of that unlucky jacket of his 
which have brought ’ee into this queer part of the world. They 
was a good suit of clothes, or 1 wouldn’t have axed for ’em back ; 
but this hei’e gould pen eddii’t his.” 

It was Mary Armstrong’s pen, and Harold took it eagerly. 

“ I would not have lost it for treble its worth,” he said. 
“ This sets me wondering, Daniel, if Miss Armstrong had news 
in the letter 1 brought her oi that person’s safety. Although 
she knew her father was dead^ there was some strange elation 
about her which I could not understand. Find out if you can 
from the Coastguard* if any relative of Captain Armstrong’s was 
on board the Alerty 

“ There was no one of his name,” returned Daniel — “ I know 
that for sartain ; but I can get a list of the crew that wdll tell 
who is missing and who is drowned.” 

“ Daniel, you are iny right hand ! ” exclaimed Harold. “ It 
will be the best clue I have had jet. How is it I never thought 
of it before *? ” 

“ For the matter of that, neither did I. It is one of them 
simple things a man forgets while he is running after the hard 
ones.” 

This from Daniel as he wrung Harold’s hand and hurried 
away to his waiting boat and the ship just spreading sails for 
England. 

In India it was a time of war — a time of “ battle, confusion, 
and garments rolled in blood ; ” and Harold’s regiment being 
sent at once to the front, he found himself carried on by the red 
tide of glory into scenes of danger and excitement that for a 
while quenched the fevered desires of his heart, for “ Nature is 
subdued to what it works in, like the dyer’s hand.” Thus it hap- 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


255 


pened that the strong chains of duty, of circumstance, and of 
cruel war held him fast through many a terrible month after his 
first arrival, till there fell down upon his haze a dreaminess, a 
fear that he was hunting a phantom, and that life for him held 
nothing beyond the day’s bloodshed, the night’s march, the dull 
dreariness of camp and sickness, and the shouts and cries of 
battle. He seemed to have hoisted sail to all the winds which 
should transport him farthest from Estrild and that home of love 
which had been his youth’s best dream. 

And she was silent. Ho letter from far-off England reached 
him through these sultry months, when death was busy all 
around him in the “ mingled war’s battle ” or in the close silent 
tent where men, with scarce a groan lay down to die. 

Once in a desperate engagement Harold saved the life of a 
young officer at the risk of his own and at the cost of a slight 
wound. He was a young fellow whose reckless bravery had once 
or twice startled him — not with admiration, but with the strange 
suspicion that there was a touch of despair in it, and he was 
longing to rid himself of life. 

Hitherto there had been little friendship or companionship 
l)et\veen them, for they were not in the same regiment ; but dur- 
ing the night after the sharp battle Harold sought him out in his 
vent, and found him with his head between his hands in black 
melancholy. Ho welcome, no word of thanks greeted him ; he 
simply looked up, and in silence pointed to a seat. 

“ I half fretted you might be anxious about that scratch I 
got,” Harold said, “so I have come to tell you it is no more than 
a scratch.” 

“ I am glad it is no worse,” returned the other, “though I dare 
say you are making too light of it. Olver, you had no right to 
risk your existence for me ; and, if you think I shall thank you 
for my life, you are mistaken.” 

“ My dear fellow, do you suppose I came here for thanks ? 
And I imagine I have as great a right as you to throw my life 
to those black dogs if I choose.” 

“I doubt that. With some it is a duty to live, with others a 
duty to die.” 

“ Come, now — don’t talk like the Sphinx of Egypt,” said Har- 
old, “ unless you interpret at the Rame time.” 

“ I mean that no doubt you have people to live for, while per- 
haps I may have people I wish to die for.’* 


256 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ Do you call that an interpretation T asked Harold laugh- 
ing. “ I expect, old fellow, you have more to live for than I 
have. Except a cousin who would bury me cheerfully ” — Harold 
little knew how true his jesting words were — “ I have not a rela- 
tive in the world. And in India one’s friends forget one,’’ he 
added, with a slight change in his voice; }et I think I still have 
one I would willingly die for !” — and as he spoke his blood ran 
warmly to his heart with thoughts of Estrild. 

“ Would you ? Well, if I die, it will be for an enemy.” 

“ That’s more magnanimous,” said Harold, in a jesting tone. 
“ I confess I am not so generous as to throw away my life ” 

He stopped suddenly, for his companion had risen in a hurried 
way, and, lifting the curtain of the tent, he stood now looking 
out upon the stilled and silent camp. In a moment he turned 
and held out his hand, as if in a changed mood. 

“ I beg your pardon. Giver, but I am sure you know how to 
make allowances for my gloomy temperament. You have seen 
that ‘there is something rotten in the state of Denmark.’ ” 

“ I have not observed it. But can I help you ?” — and Harold 
laid his hand kindly on the young man’s shoulder. 

“ No one can help me. Giver, we have not been thrown to- 
gether much, but I feel there is a link between us, and you have 
often been lenient to my gloomy temper. I shall tell you the 
truth. I came out to India to die ; I am resol vod this shall 
finish 1” He spoke fiercely, and dashed his hand across his fore- 
head as though sweeping away some painful vision. 

“ What are you talking of ? What shall finish ? ” asked Har- 
old, hiding his amazement in a soothing tone. 

“ My life, and all the misery of it. It is a horrible inherit- 
ance, and I have a right to fling it away.” 

“ Cumberland, you are talking wildly ! You are fevered by 
the horrors of the day. Go to rest, lad, and you will feel bet- 
ter.” 

“ Rest?” he returned excitedly. “ How can a man haunted as 
I am sleep.” 

“ Why should you be haunted ?” returned Harold. “ You 
have a clear conscience, and are neither brigand, pirate, nor as- 
sassin. I don’t see why you should not sleep better than many 
of the old sinners in camp, whose slumbers might well be haunt- 
ed by the ghosts of their many slain.” 

“ You may jest at my words,” said Cumberland gravely ; “ but 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


257 


have you neVer heard that it is possible to be haunted with the 
idea of murder — with the conviction that you are doomed one 
day to commit some ghastly crime ? ’’ 

“ Cumberland, I shall send Doctor Pemberton to see you. 
Your wits are wandering through excitement ; that happens at 
times to men after a battle.^' 

“ I answer, like Hamlet, * My blood discourses as healthy 
music as yours.’ I am not mad, and yet I tell you I will not 
escape my fate unless I die. And, Giver, I mean to die. I will 
not I’ve to carry a felon’s conscience with me to my grave. 
There - - leave me — I am not myself to-night ! But for you I 
should be at rest ! ” 

So much for gratitude ! ” said Harold, striving to speak 
gaily. “ Well, Cumberland, the next time I see you down, with 
a black villain ready to stick a knife into you, I promise you I 
will leave you alone.” 

** Keep your word,” returned Cumberland gloomily, “ and I’ll 
thank you with my last breath.” 

Harold looked at the young fellow with a tender and anxious 
glance. He was so young and slight, and there was a look upon 
his face that bespoke pity ; it was a kind of shadow, a flitting ex- 
pression of pain, that made many believe he was doomed to an 
early death. 

“ Cumberland, you have the battle still in your ears and brain. 
I shall send Pemberton to have a chat with you — not to doctor 
you, mind.” 

“ He had better do neither,” returned Cumberland, as they 
shook hands and said good night. 

Doctors however were too busy to attend to unwounded men, 
so Harold had to forego his intentions till the morning, when he 
spoke of Cumberland’s unnerved state. 

‘‘ Unnerved ! ” repeated Doctor Pemberton, in amazement. 

My ar fellow, Cumberland has nerves of iron ! Why, he 
sppnt most of the night in the hospital tent, assisting me in some 
of the worst operations I have had since the war ! Most gentle 
— and untiring he was too in his attention to the wounded.” 

“ I know he is as tender-hearted as a child,” said Harold ; 
“ but he was very odd last night ; ” and Harold walked off to his 
duty, pondering the strange incongruity of Cumberland’s charac- 
ter. ‘‘ Apparently his nerves shattered to pieces, and angry that 
I had saved his life, and yet able to help coolly in — in that kind 
Q 


258 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


of work ! ’’ he said to himself, with a glance at the long white 
tent hiding ghastly things. 

The next time he and Cumberland met there was a momentary 
awkwardness on the part of the latter, and his face flushed hot- 
ly ; but he grasped Harold’s hand, saying, with a nervous 
laugh — 

“ ‘ Richard is himself again ! ’ Upon my word, Olver, I am 
ashamed of myself when I remember what a surly cur I was the 
other night ! I woke up as soon as you Nvere gone, and called 
myself over the coals in good strong language. Then, as a pen- 
ance for my sins, I went to the hospital and saw — well, I saw 
how men cling to life through agony and horror, and so I came 
to the conclusion that life must be worth living. I am bad at a 
speech, and I can’t fall on your neck or at your feet in Eastern 
fashion and offer you all my goods, and declare that all my rela- 
tives, dead and living, are your slaves eternally ; but I am thank- 
ful, and you know it.” 

“ My dear fellow, it appears to me you are making a tremen- 
dous speech. Come and cool your throat with a ‘ peg.’ Ice has 
just arrived.” 

This last battle was the decisive one that finished the war and 
the campaign ; the regiment went to Calcutta, and winter 
festivities began. Young Cumberland rushed into them with 
the same odour with which he had sought danger in battle. A 
fevered restlessness seemed to run through his veins, impelling 
him to constant excitement. Harold expostulated in vain, and 
warned him of all the hazards of sickness in a climate to which 
he was not accustomed. But he only laughed ; he was as mad 
,for pleasure as he had been for battle, and reckless nights fol- 
lowed r ckless days in his mad career. 

“ I believe you are trying to kill yourself ! ” remarked Harold 
one day angrily. 

“ Well, if 1 succeed,” he returned, with his old gay laugh, ** I 
will make you my heir — that is if I outlive my father,’' he added ; 
while suddenly there fell on his young face that shadow or look 
of pain which had first attracted Harold to him, since somehow 
it always brought Estrild to his mind as she looked on the ter- 
rible night of her mother’s death. 

It was not that there was any kindness between them ; it was 
a mere flitting expression ; and Harold had never spoken of it, 
being unwilling, in fact, to enter into details respecting his own 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


259 


life in his present state of mental uncertainty and pain, for not a 
line had reached him from Estrild since his landing in India. 
To him therefore she seemed to have kept her vow of separation 
with implacable firmness. 

We all hope to outlive our fathers,” he said, speaking, as he 
fancied, carelessly ; but his thoughts gave to his tone an involun- 
tary touch of sadness. 

“Not all,” rejoined Cumberland. “ There are men who would 
welcome any death rather than outlive a father.” 

Harold began an answer with a jest on his exaggerated filial 
respect, but something in his friend^s aspect stopped him. He 
changed the subject abruptly. 

“ Cumberland, I am in a bewildering state of uncertainty 
about affairs of my own. I am thinking of going home. I mean 
to ask for leave. There is no particular butchery going on at 
present, and, if there were, I feel that I should not much care to 
be in it — in fact, I should rather like not to kill anybody for a 
year or two. I am a peaceful man naturally.” 

“ I donT believe you, ’ said Cumberland lazily. “ You enjoyed 
slaughtering the snaky individual who was just about to save me 
the trouble of getting rid of my life through brandy-pawnee and 
balls — and a deuced slow way it is too ! ” 

His tone was gay, his laugh rang out into the still air, and yet 
Harold felt that his words had a bitter taste in them and his 
young soul was sad even unto death. 

“ There is many a truth uttered in jest,” he said to himself, as 
he wrung his friend’s hand and left him. 

For some days after this talk Harold was busy with his own 
affairs, and he saw little of Cumberland. His heart was sore 
with thoughj^ of Estrild ; her long silence, their estrangement, 
all appeared to him bitter and incomprehensible. Ignorant of 
the letter she had sent to him recalling him to her side, ignorant 
also of the events in London which had caused a belief in his 
death, he could but wonder painfully at her leaving his letter 
from the Cape, unanswered ; he could but argue from this fact 
that her resol v^ to make their parting final was unchanged, and 
a sort of bitterness took possession of his mind, mingled with 
jealousy and this pride of poverty, which whispered that he had 
no right to press his claim on the heiress of Langarth. There 
was a vague uneasiness too in all his thoughts — a fear that he 


260 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


had taken a wrong path in pursuing a myth and leaving Estrild 
so entirely in the power of an unscrupulous guardian. 

Ill this breathing-space between war and war, when the heat 
of the battle no longer ran hurriedly through his veins, such 
thoughts crowded swiftly on him, and the burning desire to re- 
turn home grew on him like a fever. He resolved even to re- 
sign his commission rather than be thwarted. He thirsted for a 
sight of Estrild’s face ; a painful haste to see her pervaded every 
nerve ; he felt like a man hurrying forward on an errand of life 
and death. The quest which had brought him to India was left 
far behind in his thoughts — in the excitement and dim of war 
it had faded and grown dim, and he had not advanced a single 
step nearer a solution of the mystery since Trevel’s body was 
dropped into the sea and the waves had covered his secret in their 
dark depths. So, when his request for leave was granted, his 
mind reverted to his search and all its adventures, risks, and 
disappointments with less bitterness than he would once have 
deemed possible. Thus he prepared for his departure without 
wasting mang regrets on his futile endeavours to discover the 
undisco ve ruble. On the contrary, he felt new hope bounding 
through his blood, and he was counting the days before his ship 
sailed, when Pemberton came to him with a message from Cum- 
berland. 

“ The young fellow is dangerously ill ; he wants to see you.^’ 

Harold went to his room, and found him in bed, haggard and 
changed with fever. He raised his eyes to his friend’s face with 
a faint smile. 

Thanks for coming to me, dear old man! You see, lam 
going home.” 

“ I see you have been going the pace too fast ; but you’ll pull 
through, lad — don’t fear 1 ” said Harold encouragingly. “ And 
you must get leave and return home indeed. You can sail with 
me.” 

Cumberland closed his eyes with a slight smile, as if the 
thought for a moment pleased him ; but, when he opened them 
again and looked up, Harold saw that the hope that had lighted 
them for an instant had fled. 

‘‘There is no home for me, Olver, but my long home. I want 
you to — to promise me that you will see my father, and tell him 
not to grieve ; tell him it is best so, and I was glad — you hear 
the word ? — glad I Say it to him twice ; he will understand.” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


261 


“ My dear boy, 1^11 promise to do anything you wish,’* return- 
ed Harold ; and his voice broke as he grasped his friend’s thin 
burning hand. “But you have much to live for, Cumberland ; 
try to rally, dear lad.” 

But Cumberland shook his head slightly and closed his eyes 
again, this time to hide the anguish in them, while the fever-flush 
upon his face faded into ghastly paleness. 

“ What is it ? ” said Harold, bending over him in sharp 
anxiety. 

“ I am afraid to live,” he answered, in a low voice — “ more 
afraid than I am to die.” 

“My dear Cumberland, you are feverish, and wandering a lit- 
tle.” 

“ Ho, no ; I cannot talk much, but I know what I am saying. 
See here, Olver — you have been kind to me — kind as a brother ; 
and I am sure you know how much I care for you — how much I 
wish I could express all ” 

He stopped, feeling evidently far more than his words told, 
and yet feeling, as Englishmen do, that to say anything, was to 
say too much. Equally reticent, Harold sat dumb, grasping his 
hand, and inv/ardly wondering how one so young should care so 
little to live, and, more, should speak of life as a thing more to 
be feared than death. 

In the momentary silence between them Cumberland seemed 
to regain courage, and was able to master his emotion. 

“ I have your promise, Olver ; you will go to my father and 
repeat exactly what I have said ? ” 

“ My dear fellow, if necessary 1 will ; but you will get well — 
there will be no need and Harold thrust down the choking 
feeling in his throat with a supreme effort. 

“ Over there,” continued Cumberland, pointing to his desk, 
“ you will find a letter addressed to my father ; that will tell you 
where to find him. Do not be startled that his name is not the 
same as mine, Olver and he grasped Harold’s hands feverish- 
ly. “ I am like the prodigal son ; I have left home, father, 
name, and heritage— all to escape from Hark — he is call- 

ing me now 1 Hold me down, Olver ! Do you know that if I 
once give way I shall be compelled — forced against my blood — 
to return home and do his bidding ? ” 

The wildness with which he spoke and his haggard look made 
Harold think he raved, as, obeying his behest, he held him firm- 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


ly with both arms. But in a moment the paroxysm passed, and 
Cumberland lay back on his pillow pale and quiet. 

“ It is that diabolical tune the band is playing that unnerved 
me,” he said feebly, wiping the moisture from his brow. 

Harold listened, and faintly in the distance he caught the 
echo of military music, while in the air played there floated by 
mystic memories of far-ofi* battles, of things distant and dead, of 
the pain of souls long departed, the grief of hearts long cold. 

‘‘Who gave them that accursed music?” asked Cumberland 
sharply. 

“I cannot tell you. But it reminds me of an air I neard once 
in circumstances that — have altered all my life,” concluded 
Harold abruptly. 

“Yes,” said Cumberland, as if not heeding his words. “Yet 
it is not the same,” he continued dreamily, as if to himself; “it 
is only the spirit of pain in it that gives it the likeness.” 

The music had passed out of hearing, but the tramp of men 
followed it, and Cumberland listened to the steady march of 
many feet with a smile lighting up his wan face. 

“There is life in that sound, Olver. I like it. The concen- 
trated energy of so many hearts beating as one, bent on one pur- 
pose, conquers all before it. Oh, if only one human soul was 
bound to mine, to fight my battle with me, I think I could 
live !” 

Harold pressed his hand in silence ; he regarded his words as 
outpourings from a fevered brain, and knew not how to answer 
him. 

“There is one other person I should like you to see, Olver, if 
you would,” said Cumberland in a moment. 

His voice and manner were more composed, but his strength 
was ebbing ; in a little while Harold saw he would be past 
speech. 

“ My dear lad, I will see any one you wish.” 

“And you will give her a last message from me,” continued 
Cumberland, in fainter tones. “Tell her I was glad to go — glad 
to be rid of the burden she knows of that I had not strength to 
bear — glad to give up the battle I could not fight. If she could 
have stood by my side always, I might have had strength to re- 
sist, but without her I had no power, no will.” He stopped and 
put his hand upon his brow, then looked up at Harold a little 
wildly. “ It is horrible such things are allowed,” he said — “ a 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


263 


human being in the hands of another, and that other perchance 
a fiend — compelled to obey his will while the soul shudders at 
him and the spirit faints with fear and loathing. Yes, yes ; I 
am glad it is nearly over. And you will thank her Olver, for 
all her goodness to me, and tell her my last thoughts were of her. 
That is all. I fear I cannot talk any more.^’ 

My dear Cumberland, give me her name if you can, and 1 
will do your bidding, even if I have to go from one end of Eng- 
land to tlie other. 

** Her name is Armstrong — Mary Armstrong — the best, kind- 
est 

His words panted on his lips, and his fainting eyes gazed up 
into Harold’s bloodless face in terror, for liis clenched hand was 
resting on the bed, and over all his aspect there was a strange 
dazed look, like that of a man suddenly finding himself face to 
face with some unexpected horror. 

In a moment Harold had recovered himself ; the colour slowly 
returned to his blanched face, and he looked down wistfully on 
the faint and dying figure before him. He saw a weak slight 
lad, whose delicate features were worn to a shadow, whose thin 
hand was searching gropingly for the kindly clasp of his, and his 
heart turne 1 faint within him. A sob rose in his throat } he 
touched the poor wan hand and turned away. 

“ Good-bye, Cumberland. I will do you bidding. I know 
where Mary Armstrong lives.” 

A smile rose to Cumberland’s lips, a slight pressure came from 
his thin fingers, and he and Harold had parted. 

In ?iis own room Harold sat down to think, with brain still 
bewildered. 

Was it possible — could it be possible? Was this poor fragile 
dying lad the slayer of Tristram Carbonellis ? And, because he 
liad not seized him by the throat and cried in his fainting ears^ 
“ You are an assassin ! ” he had lost Ertrild and love and happi- 
ness for ever ? 

The question rose again and again in his racked mind without 
answ'er — without hope and answer ; but he felt that even £o win 
Estrild he could not torture the dying, he could not go to the 
magistrate or colonel and denounce Cumberland as a criminal 
flying from justice. And w^as he this ? Under what cloud of 
mystery and misery had he become guilty? The words which 
he had taken for the wanderings of fever bore a new meaning 


284 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


now to his mind, and he fancied that Cumberland might be as 
much the victim of a strange fate as Tristram Carboneilis. He 
had never thought to recall TreveFs dying declaration with the 
hope of finding comfort in it, but he did so now — “ An accidei\t 
— as I hope for mercy, an accident/' 

Yes, it was surely that, no matter how mysterious the circum- 
stances in which it had occurred ; and he would let Cumberland 
dib in peace. 

With this thought he took Mary Armstrong's gift from his 
desk and laid it before him on the table. 

“ I have kept my word — I have not hurt him," he said ; “ and 
the hardest moment was when I looked on his dying face and 
recognised it as the face I had seen on board the East-Indiarnan. 
Yes, that was how Captain Armstrong saved him ; he was put 
on board the ship, before the storm overtook the Alert. And 
Mary Armstrong knew he was safe when she gave me this —the 
letter I brought told her." 

All this was surmise, but Harold felt it was the truth, as, rest- 
ing his head upon his hands^ he reflected that even now it was 
not too late to wrench the proof from Cumberland’s dying 
lips. 

What ! Could he bring the sweat of agony on that poor wan 
face ? Could he see that wasted frame writlie beneath the bur- 
den of his broken heart ? If he had sinned, he was dying for 
his sin ; it was enough. 

“ I saved his life once. I will not drag away with cruel hand 
the last feeble remnant of life in him now. No, I will not hurt 
him. Estrild will forgive me. I will go on board to-night, lest 
I should be tempted to steal once more to his bedside and stand 
over him as the avenger of blood." 

Harold kept his word, and the ship sailed for England with- 
out his hearing or knowing whether Cumberland was living or 
dead. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

“ There is only one thing to be done now,” said Mr. Yicat to 
his wife — “these young people must marry, and at once too.” 

“ That’s what you have been driving at ! ” exclaimed Mrs. 
Vicat. “ It is a vile plot — a shameful plot I I’ll have no hand 

ia it.” 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


265 


“ That is quite true — I shall certainly not ask you for your 
valuable aid ; I prefer to manage the affair myself. I shall pro- 
cure a special license for the ceremony.’^ 

Mrs. Vicat stared at him with round eyes of amazement. 

“ You may take a horse to a pond, but you can’t make him 
drink,” she said. ‘‘ If you have fifty licenses, it won’t make a 
marriage ; Estrild will never be Gilbert’s wife.” 

“We shall see,” returned her husband. “ Tho girl is alone in 
the world — her lover is dead ; she has nothing to hope for, noth- 
ing to live for. Her spirits are broken ; she will obey me. And 
after the marriage, in my opinion, she will not live long.” 

Mrs. Vicat grew a little pale. 

“Don’t tell me any of your diabolical plans,” she said, gather- 
ing up her work hurriedly and running to the door. “ I can’t and 
won’t hear them.” 

“ You are a simpleton,” returned Mr. Vicat politely. “ I make 
a quiet remark on Estrild’s state of health, and you immediately 
imagine ” 

“No, no; I imagine nothing — I only know you have left no 
means untried to torture that poor girl to death. You have 
ordered Gilbert to terrify her with his wizard tricks ; and you 
forced him to make an appointment with her at an improper time 
— a time that would cast a slur on her good name.” 

“Just so ; she herself has make her marriage a necessity.” 

“ It is nothing of the kind — you only want to secure her 
wealth for yourself ; your son is not long for this world — you will 
be his heir. Mr. Vicat, I shall pray for the destruction of your 
schemes.” 

Mrs. Vicat fled with these words; she had passed the line 
which her husband allowed in these recriminations. He per- 
mitted no reference to prayer or to religion — she might do all 
things except pray against him ; there was a curious vein of 
superstition in the man which made him fear prayer much in 
the same way as the savage fears the medicine-man. He glared 
after his wife now with fury in his eyes, but he guessed that she 
had taken refuge with Carrie, and he did not care to follow her 
to his daughter’s presence. 

“Time and opportunity come to the man who waits for them,’* 
he said sententiously, as he banged his front-door on the domes- 
tic din that rang through staircase and hall, and hurried on to 
his office. 


266 


FROM TUE OTHER SIDE. 


Of all the victims he had made through his cruel life, his un- 
bappy son was the most miserable ; wrecked in health and nerve, 
he had sought refuge in strange studies for a relief to his pain 
and solitude. He had learned secrets of which in his weakness 
he could make no use ; he had fathomed depths into which he 
dared not look. But neither occult mysteries nor transient 
glimpses into the miracles of science could relieve the dull ache 
of loneliness or feed the heart-hunger he felt ; one other thing 
they could noc do — they never lifted from his mind the load of 
terror laid on it through childish years. He hated and feared 
his father still. Estrild had come to him like a beam of light in 
a dark place, and he had learned to hunger and thirst for her 
presence as a prisoner in his dungeon pines for the sun ; to see 
her, to hear her voice, to hold her hand, had been temptations 
he had not strength to resist — hence he had fallen into the net 
spread for him, and he had dragged Estrild into the toils also. 
In the first agony of his remorse he had broken his crystals and 
destroyed manuscripts that had cost him years of toil. The 
great solace of his life was gone ; but he could never again be 
tempted to wile Estrild to his room with promises of revealing to 
her the distant and the unknown. 

In the anguish of his soul and the weariness of his flesh his 
power deserted him. Human love crept into his heart and filled 
up every avenue of thought ; and the occult, the mysterious, the 
spiritual dwellers of his mind found no place of rest. They fled 
before the tide of his passion, and left him room to perish in its 
flood. 

A month passed by, each day filled with a gloomier despair. 
He knew that Estrild was ill — almost unto death ; but lie never 
saw her or asked to see her. He heard of her from Carrie, who, 
sometimes contemptuous, sometimes kind, and at all times afraid 
of him with that sort of fear which repelled all confidence, came 
to his room with a book or a newspaper, or to talk of Tom. This 
was his only glimpse of the outside world ; to the rest of the 
household he was as a forgotten piece of lumber that had been 
thrust out of sight years before, to pass utterly from memory. 

One day his door was opened gently, and, looking up with the 
unexpectant gaze of one who was hopeless of pleasure or change, 
he saw Estrild standing on the threshold. The dull book he was 
striving to read dropped from his hand, a flush rose to his brow, 
and his quivering lips refused to give him speech. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


267 


Estrild was like the shadow of herself ; her once bright colour 
was gone, her cheeks were pale and sunken, her hands hung by 
her side pale and lifeless. 

“Are you shocked to see me so chano^ed she asked, coming 
towards him. “But I am getting well now.’’ 

“You look very ill,” he answered, gazing into her face hun- 
grily. “ Estrild, can you forgive me ? It is my fault that you 
have sutfered so deeply.” 

“ How can it be your fault ? You did but show me the truth.” 

“ Can we be sure it was the truth he said hesitatingly. 

“ Do not shake my belief now,” she answered. “ I am calmer, 
more resigned, since I have ceased to doubt — since I can no long- 
er hope and wonder, and pray for the surety that he is either 
dead or living. If he were living, would he leave me in anguish 
through these long months of silence ? Oh, no ; it was a true 
vision ! And I recognised the ship — it was the same in which I 
saw him the first time I looked into that strange crystal.” 

She glanced round her as if searching for it, and for a moment 
Gilbert regretted its destruction. He gazed into her face with 
sad wistful eyes, longing passionately at any cost to hold her 
hand, to press his lips upon it once more. 

“1 have broken the crystal,” he said, with a great sigh — “ I 
can never call a vision into it again ; and, Estrild, remember this 
— it was you who saw what was shadowed forth in it ; I saw 
only you I ” 

She answered but the first part of his speech, as if not hearing 
the last words. 

“ I am sorry you have broken it, though not for my own sake. 
I would not look into it again, for, though you tell me these won- 
ders are all of the world — nature’s secrets drawn from her great 
laboratory — yet it is wise for some not to peer into them.” 

“ You were frightened,” Gilbert said anxiously; “and I am 
to blame. The temptation to be near you was too strong for me. 
Oh, Estrild, let me confess ” 

“ Ko, no ; I will hear no confessions,” slie cried hurriedly ; 
“ and I ask you as a kindness to speak of the matter no more.” 

He drew a breath of relief — he was spared the humiliating 
task he had set himself. His confession would have startled 
Estrild, though it was not an avowal of the love she had never 
guessed which he hid. And now, seeing him pale and troubled, 
she felt sorry for him. 


263 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


“ Do not distress or blame yourself on my account,” she said ; 
“ It was no foolish horror of the supernatural that caused my ill- 
ness ; you must remember what the vision was that I beheld. It 
was a funeral — in that lay the shock for me.” 

She paused a moment, clasping her hands together nervously. 
Gilbert lowered his eyes, not daring to look into her face. What 
did their coverings hide ? Was it jealousy or compunction ? 

“ And you had told me,” she continued, ‘‘ that the crystal 
could but mirror an actual fact — a living thing passing on the 
earth, and painted by some curious means yet unknown by the 
light. And it was possible to convey a reflection of the sun- 
picture into the crystal, by the light also, through a power which 
you have learned to use. For this dominion over every secret 
of nature is given to man, you have said, if he would but seek 
for this instead of grovelling in the earth for gold.” 

“I have spoken truly — the perfect man shall have dominion 
over earth and air and sky, and death shall be trampled down 
beneath his feet.” 

A momentary exaltation raised his lowered eyes and filled them 
with the great triumph of life. 

“ And you have told me that sound also can be conveyed from 
unknown distance. I do not understand what you have said, 
but I have believed, and so I saw and heard what was passing 
perchance a thousand miles away, and I know that Harold is 
dead.” 

Again there was a mementos silence, and Gilbert leaned for- 
ward and hid his face on his hands. 

She came and stood before him, white as a lily, and as lovely ; 
her breath fell on him as though a honeysuckle had touched his 
brow, her low sweet voice melted his very heart within him. 

“ Harold is dead,” she repeated, “ and I have come, Gilbert, 
to say that I will be your wife.” 

His hands dropped down, and he looked up with eyes that 
blazed and cheeks covered with a hectic fire. 

“ Hot for the infamous words my father has said ! ” he cried. 

Estrild, do you think me a demon that I should take advan- 
tage of your innocence to accept such a sacrifice at your hands ?” 

“ Stop ! You don’t know what I am offering,” -she said. “ It 
is no sacrifice ; except Pleasance, I have no relative in the world 
but you.; to devote myself to you two will give me something to 
live for. Your life is valuable — you have fathomed secrets that 


I 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


269 


j might change the destiny of nations ; mine is worthless, and I 
I think, as Mr. Vicat says, that I 5=hall not live long.” 

“ Estrild ! ” he exclaimed, holding out his hand to her wild- 

I 

She set them gently aside, and went on in the same low sad 
voice. 

“ Let me save your life, Gilbert, for the world. Here in this 
lonely room of sickness you have toiled and suffered through the 
niofhts and days of many weary years. Shall I stand by in the 
seltishness of my own pain to see all that labour lost ? No, I 
cannot do that ; in happier circumstances, in a sunnier clime, you 
will regain health, and your researches, your great discoveries, 
will bless the world. What am I compared with the welfare of 
a world ? Shall I, a mere girl, dare to weigh myself in the 
balance against the happiness of millions ? Gilbert, it is not of me 
you must think, but of the secrets of science that you possess, 
the power you hold to lessen human misery. It is for this you 
must live, and your name will go down with blessings to nations 
unborn.” 

She raised her great gray eyes upwards, filled with the light 
of enthusiasm, not seeing that the man trembling before her had 
lost his philosophy and his lore, and felt his universe only in 
her. 

“ Estrild, you do but dream ! ” he said sadly, hiding as best he 
could tiie heavings of his mighty sorrow. 

“ Listen, then, and I will tell you what my dream is. I will 
use my riches to restore you to health. I will have a ship fitted 
like a palace, and you and I and Pieasance will sail in it to the 
sunniest seas that run round the world. We will land hero and 
there on the isles, and gather flowers like children, and sail away 
again. Oh, I know that will give you strength and health I 
Your father, you see, has told me, and the physician he brought 
to me said the same — a long sea- voyage is the great remedy — 
the true remedy, he said. And he left me, Gilbert, feeling glad 
of heart that I could yet do some good with my poor life. He 
opoke too of your wonderful discoveries, and the marvels you 
miglit bring to success if you had but hope and energy.” 

“ Do you mean that my father spoke of them ? ” Gilbert asked, 
with a flash in his eyes, interrupting her unwillingly, for her 
words poured over him like music, though he knew they were 
but a dream. 


270 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


“ Yes, your father.'* 

‘‘ Then, Estrild, I must speak the truth, even if I die for it by 
lingering on here in my prison-house. My father spoke only for 
his own purpose to rouse within your soul a high motive of self- 
sacrifice. He has no belief in his own words ; his contempt for 
me would be boundless if it were not mingled with a little fear, 
for he half thinks me a sorcerer.** 

“ All the more reason,** she answered, “that I should rescue 
you from his sneers and help you to prove him wrong.** 

“ Oh, Estrild, Estrild, you madden me ! I cannot — I dare 
not take you at your word ! Look at me, and see whether it be 
possible that I could link such a life as mine with yours,** 

He spoke bitterly, and with a passion so intense that his lips 
grew white as his words passed through them ; yet she could not 
see that this meant love. 

“Is it not beca^use you and I are alike — both withered?** she 
said, still with that quiet compassion in her voice that moved 
her all through. “Is it not because of the bitterness in our two 
lives that I am able to offer you what I could offer no other — my 
help, my companionship, and the aid of my wealth ? I am not 
ofiering love, Gilbert. I have none to give — you know that *’ — 
and a faint colour touched her cheeks and fled — “ neither am I 
asking for it. I ask only that you will give me the power to help 
you through a right all men acknowledge — the right bestowed by 
the marriage ceremony.** 

“ Oh, I have understood you !’* he answered bitterly. “ How 
could such as I misunderstand?** 

There was a world of meaning in his mournful words ; they 
showed that he knew himself outside the pale of human love. 

Estrild stood by his side silent ; she felt dimly the shadow of 
some terrible truth which her mind could not grasp, could not 
even guess at. How could she comprehend that she was giving 
him gall to drink as she hung him on the cross of her great pity ! 

“You liave not answered me,** she said in a moment, in her 
sweet pitiful voice. 

“ Estrild, you are ofiering me money — nothing but money ; 
and, to induce me to accept it, you propose to chain your young 
life to ** 

She interrupted him hurriedly. 

“You shall not speak of yourself in cruel words,** she said; 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


271 


and, if I offer raoney, it is for noble ends — it means for you 
name and fame and power to do good beyond your dreams/^ 

For an instant, as through a long vista, he beheld glorious pos- 
sibilities ; he saw the face of a changed world, he saw health and 
happiness in the old dwellings of misery, he saw his name writ- 
ten in light, and heard blessings called -down upon his memory. 
But the vision faded, and the temptation that, like a mighty 
wind, had swayed his longing soul, passed away, leaving him 
only the still small voice of conscience. 

He rose, and turned away his eyes resolutely from the sweet 
pale face of the woman who had pleaded with him for his own 
fame. 

“Estrild, I cannot do this thing. You weigh down the world, 
you weigh down the millions that live and the millions yet to 
live. There is no good I could do to them that would counter- 
balance the evil done to you.’^ 

“ There would be no evil done to me,” she interposed eagerly. 

“Yes, there will be evil past remedy. You will live to know 
that grief does not last for ever. You will love again ; you will 
marry and be happy.” 

A deep and sudden flush rose from chin to brow as she turned 
to the door to leave him. 

“ You wrong me ; all the love I had is gone down into the seaw 
And, even if Harold lived, I could not be his wife. My promise 
to my brother forbids it. My wealth and the companionship of 
my wrecked life are all my dead brother and my dead love leave 
me to bestow ; and it is only to you I could offer these, because 
you have no need of love. You care for a whole world, not for 
a solitary woman ; and I thought you would accept my poor 
gifts, and give me in return the joy of knowing that I had saved 
you to bless the world that now wrongs and scorns you.” 

There were tears in her eyes, but she went away without an- 
other word, closing the door on his solitude and his pain. 

“ Is there any scorn equal to her scorn, which calls itself 
pity ? ” he said, as his head drooped upon his hands and tears fell 
between his thin fingers — fell upon his broken dreams, his shat- 
tered hopes — fell fast like bitter rain, and yet could not quench 
the tiery longing of his heart for one word, one touch of love. 


272 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


CHAPTER XXXYII. 

Mr. Yicat was triumphant. 

“ Six months ago,” he said to his wife, “ you declared the mar- 
idage I proposed to bring about was impossible. Well, it is all 
settled now, and will take place to-morrow. Gilbert has given 
in at last. As I always foretold, Estrild was easily managed ; 
he was the difficult one.” 

“ 1 will never pray against your schemes again, Mr. Yicat, if 
that wedding is carried out to-morrow.” 

“ Thank you, my dear. I must inform you also that the ship 
is ready in which the romantic couple are to sail round the world. 
She is fitted up splendidly, and is a perfect show on the Thames.” 

Mrs. Yicat gathered herself together with a slight shudder. 

“ Then I presume all the deeds are signed which settle things 
to your satisfaction ? ” she observed, with shaking lips. 

“ What do you mean by that question V asked Mr. Yicat sav- 
agely. Before a marriage, settlements are necessary, and, 
being of age, Estrild has done as she pleased — she has made a 
fair settlement.” 

‘‘ Ts your name in it, Mr. Yicat ? ” 

“ Naturally it is,” he answered in the same tone. I am her 
uncle and nearest relative, so, with the exception of a handsome 
sum given to Miss Glendorgal, the property devolves on me when 
the young couple — ” 

“ Are dead or — or, let us say, drowned.” 

“ You shall say nothing of the kind,” said Mr. Yicat fiercely. 
** You impugn the soundness of the ship, which is as fine a 
clipper as ever sailed.” 

“ Then God give her a prosperous voyage ! ” said Mrs. Yicat. 

“ You are an internal woman 1 ” responded her husband, as a 
slight whiteness gathered about his lips. “You always succeed 
in planting a sting in my most successful plans. And you have 
again passed the line forbidden to you. I’ll have no such talk as 
that in my hearing.” 

He stalked away in anger, and Mrs. Yicat burst into tears. 

“ Thank goodness Carrie is coming home to-day I ” she said, 
as her sobs subsided. 

For nearly three months Carrie had been in this country, 
staying with Tom’s father and mother ; but for this fact, Mr. 
Yicat perhaps had not been quite so successful. Yet the war- 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


273 


fare between him and his son had been long and desperate. It 
was a battle of the strong against the weak, waged unscrupul- 
ously, in which no expedient was left untried which could bring 
him victory. 

Ofttimes in the darkness of the night the children who slept 
near Gilbert’s rooms would start up in their beds and listen, 
trembling, to the loud sound of their father’s voice. Then they 
heard words and menaces that made their young spirits quail, 
and, holding each other’s hand, they would ask in whispers what 
their strange wizard-brother had done to cause such anger. 

All this was unguessed at and unheard by Estrild, for her 
rooms were far away on the other side of the large house ; and, 
when she paid her visits of compassion to her cousin, feelings that 
may be imagined held him silent. To her he only appeared 
weaker, paler, more exhausted every day, thus increasing her 
pity till she grew feverish and impatient in her longing to rescue 
and help him. To her also it did but seem that his resistance 
weakened with his own weakness, and that at last he yielded 
even gladly to her generous wish to take upon herseif a legal 
right to use her wealth to the saving of his life.* 

When he had once yielded, a fevered light shone again in his 
eyes, a colour touched his cheeks, a mad hope breathed within 
him. It was the hope of a quiet death, far from these scenes of 
misery, these sounds of threats — a quiet death rocked on a sunny 
sea, with Estrild’s hand in his, and Estrild’s eyes, divinely kind, 
guessing his secret at last, and looking into his with the pity the 
angels feel for genius wasted and love given in vain. 

* * * * * * 

“Well,” exclaimed Carrie, “so this is the gunpowder-plot 
father has been concocting in my absence ! Did I not warn 
you, Estrild, that when he was most smooth and kind and insinu- 
ating he was at his worst tricks ? Why have you allowed your- 
self to be taken in ? ” 

“ I am not taken in that I am aware of, Carrie. It is in my 
power to save your brother’s life — a life of infinite value ; and 
your father has shown me that I can do it only by calling myself 
his wife.” 

“ And by legally endowing him and father with your money,” 
said Carrie, in breathless indignation. “ But of what use is it to 
talk to you 1 You are one person, and I am another. I am 
commonplace, and you are romantic. And in your romance you 

R 


274 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


are doing a thing that I suppose tom-fools would call generous, 
but which 1 call idiotic, if not wicked ! ” 

Carrie, you are going too far ! Estrild cried angrily. 

“ Well, it is wicked to give in to father’s plots, not knowing 
the meaning and end of them. However, I shall set to work to 
fathom them. And what does Miss Glendorgal say to this 
scheme ? Does she go with you ? ” 

“No ; I did not think it right to ask her, as she disapproved 
so much of it. She cannot judge truly, not knowing Gilbert.” 

“ Ah, but she knows you ! ” returned Carrie snappishly. “ And 
she ought to have come to town, and stopped this plot.” 

Later on that evening Carrie went out alone, leaving Tom and 
Tom’s father, who had escorted her back to London, to be enter- 
tained by Mr. and Mrs. Yicat. 

“ So y'our son is going to be married ? ” observed the old gen- 
tleman in an astonished voice. “ I thought he was a hopeless 
invalid.” 

“ Oh, there are chances of life for him with a sea-voyage and 
a w^arm climate ; and ray niece is resolved to devote her fortune 
to his restoration, and proposed to accompany him ! But I could 
not permit her to compromise herself in that way, so I have con- 
sented to her idea of a romantic marriage. She is to be a sort of 
sister of meroy to him.” 

“Oh, indeed!” returned Tom’s father. “Let us hope then 
that he will get well.” 

“ And, if he does,” resumed Mr. Vicat, with an odd smile, 
“ we shall hear great things of him. Through his wife’s large 
fortune he will have a chance now to carry out his experiments 
and prove himself a wizard indeed.” 

“ Ah, I have heard he can do queer things !” 

“ He frightens us all at times,” said Mrs. Vicat uneasily. 

“ But what he does now is nothing to what he will do when 
he gets time, health, and money,” continued her husband, v/ith 
the same smile and inward enjoyment of his own ’words. “ Bless 
you, he is going to send messages round the world upon wires, 
and make boats that will sail under water ; he is going to hold 
conversation with folk a hundred miles off, and carry food in a 
bottle in his pocket which will last thirty days. It will be con- 
venient — all that — won’t it 

Tom’s father, who was a pious old gentleman, looked grave. 

“It is more than St. Peter or St. Paul ever did or tried to do,” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


275 


he said. “ Surely your son does not set himself up abo^^e the 
apostles — he can’t mean he’ll work greater miracles than they 
did !” 

‘‘But Gilbert declares they are not miracles — they are all 
natural things,” said Mrs. Vicat, always with the same uneasi- 
ness in her tone, the same anxious glances at her husband. 

“Natural ! Oh, no ! A man in his senses can’t believe that. 
But perhaps the poor fellow is a little queer in his head, ma’am.” 

“You have hit the mark,” returned Mr. Yicat, with a coarse 
laugh. “ Gilbert is a little mad upon his inventions.” 

“ But some of them are pretty remarkable,” observed Tom ; 
“ and, if he is right in his theories, I believe they could be work- 
ed with success.” 

“ ‘ If ’ is a mighty big word,” said Mr. Vicat. “ At all events, 
his philosophy, whether mad or sane, has got him an heiress, and 
there’s an end for the present. Let us wish him joy !” 

Mr. Yicat had introduced the conversation for his own pur- 
poses, and his wife knew it. In her secret soul she felt he was 
acting a part which he would require to have remembered in his 
favour one day. 

Carrie’s entrance was a relief to her, and also to Tom, whose 
mental discomfort had been nearly as visible as her own. 

The girl was joyous, and carried a laugh in either eye which 
was pretty to see. 

“Well, Carrie, is it all right?” whispered Tom. 

“ Right as a thread and true as gold.” 

^ ^ ^ « « 

It. was the wedding morning, and Estrild sat in her room 
dressed and calm. There was a slight misgiving at her heart — 
planted there by Carrie — and she shrank from analysing it, as 
she felt such a misgiving was selfish. In her intense girlish 
ignorance, she deemed that her life could not be better spent 
than in devoting it as nurse and sister to the unhappy cousin 
whose genius now was crippled by sickness and poverty. Still 
she wished she could have carried out her generous design with- 
out marriage ; but Mr. Vicat had not only declared this a neces- 
sity, but had refused his consent to any other scheme she had 
proposed. 

“ I am your guardian, and I won’t let you waste money on a 
cousin, though you may on a husband. That would be justifi- 
able, and the world would not blame me for allowing it. Aa 


276 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


it is, my duty is clear. I will not permit you to lavish money 
or lose your character for a cousin. I don^t permit you to leave 
the house with him except as his wife.’^ 

Shut away from the outside world, weakened by illness, and 
filled with despair by the deaths of those she loved, and looking 
forward to the loneliness and uselessness of her own life with 
mute hopelessness, it was no wonder she yielded to Mr. Yicat’s 
specious arguments without understanding their iniquity. Un- 
able to consult with any one, lonely and friendless in dreary 
London, and completely in his power, she was like a young girl 
in the hands of a subtle priest who avails himself maybe of some 
youthful bitterness to persuade her to give her dowry to a con- 
vent and immure herself within its walls, a prisoner for life. In 
this case it was through the utter weariness of a broken heart 
that a cruel scheme succeeded. 

The door opened and Estrild started up, expecting to see Mr. 
Vicat’s smooth face ; but it was Carrie who entered, followed by 
a young girl so light that she seemed a child, and yet with the 
earnest face of a steadfast woman. 

“ This is my friend Mary Armstrong,” said Carrie. 

Estrild looked at her with patient meek eyes. Once she would 
have been angry at the sound of her name; now it mattered 
little whether they were friends or enemies. So she let Mary 
take her cold lifeless hand and kneel down by her side and look 
up into her face pleadingly. 

‘‘ Carrie tells me you are in sorrow and great trouble,” she 
said ; “ and 1 know something of sorrow too. I have lost a 
father and you a brother.” 

“Is it right you should mention him to me ? ” Estrild asked, 
striving to release her hand from Mary’s clasp. 

“ Yes, it is right, for your brother’s death led to my father’s 
— so we are sisters in sorrow.” 

“ Your father lost his life in screening an assassin.” 

“ No ! ” Mary exclaimed eagerly. “Why do you blind your- 
self to the truth ? Your brother died as all your family died — 
by an accident brought about by mysterious paeans beyond our 
ken.” 

“ So let it be then,” Estrild answered hopelessly. “ I have 
ceased to fight against the inevitable. I am the last of my race 
—the only one left now to be the victim of a fiend 1 ” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


277 


Mary shuddered at these words ; through her clasping arms 
Estrild felt the shiver that passed through her frame. 

“You know not what you say — you know not what you do. 
I am come to entreat you to save yourself from misery. This 
cruel marriage must not take place.’’ 

“ Why not ? ” asked Estrild. “ Will you tell me what better 
thing I can do with my life than save a better and nobler life — 
a thousand times nobler — than my own ? ” 

“You would not save it. Your cousin cannot live ; and your 
marriage would be a ghastly slavery for you if he did, and a 
mockery for him.” 

Estrild’s bosom heaved, but she did not answer. 

“ I would have brought Mary here sooner,” said Carrie, who 
stood by the door, as if listening for steps she feared, “ but she 
has been in Cumberland for many months. All this has hap- 
pened since I went away, Mary, and 1 know Estrild has never 
had a letter since I left home. I am sure father steals her 
letters.” 

“ Who is there to write to me but Pleasance ? ” Estrild asked, 
in the same sad way. “ Ycu see, if you take from me the hope 
of saving my cousin, you steal my last glimmer of joy.” 

“ Have you no one else to live for ? Where is your lover ? ’* 
asked Mary. 

“ Dead.” And, except that Estrild’s face grew paler, there 
was no change in voice or manner as she spoke. “ He died in 
striving to solve the mystery of my brother’s death — he died for 
my sake 1 ” 

“ Did you not see the inquest in the papers ? ” asked Carrie. 
“ He was found drowned in the Thames. But through some 
glamour of Gilbert’s — one of his wizard tricks, I think — Estrild 
will not believe it ; she persists in imagining he was on board 
some great ship ” 

“ And is still living? ” interrupted Mary eagerly. 

“No; for, even if he were on board some ship — through 
Gilbert again — Estrild imagined she received proof of his 
death.” 

“ Is that true ? ” asked Mary. 

Estrild turned her sad eyes on her without reply — she spoke 
without words. 

“ Carrie, I should like to see Gilbert,” said Mary. 


278 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ Then you must go alone/’ returned Carrie, “ for I am too 
angry to speak to him.” 

Mary went, and returned in a short time flushed and pitiful. 
Then she wished Estrild good-bye hurriedly, and, went away 
with Carrie, not having said another word against the strange 
marriage. 

In the little dark parlour which Carrie called her own room 
these two conferred earnestly together, and Mary gave a letter 
into her hands. 

“ If things happen that we fear, let her have it to comfort and 
help her,” she said. “ Carrie we must hurry now — the time is 
short.” 

Carrie, apparently without reason, burst into tears, and sobbed 
pitifully. 

“ Do you repent your promise ? ” asked Mary, laying her small 
hand on her shoulder. 

“ Repent? Ho ; I am saving mother from misery and shame ; 
I am saving the little ones — and I hope I am saving father from 
the gallows,” concluded Carrie, with a flash of anger lighting up 
her tears. 

“ Do not say that, Carrie. Our fears and suspicions may be 
all groundless. You will be glad to prove them so.” 

^‘I believe what Tom says — that the captain of that ship is a 
desperate man, ready for any deed of crime ; and his wife is 
worse than himself.” 

“We have both believed Tom ; Carrie, there is no more time 
to talk.” 

Carrie hurried away to her mother’s room, and astonished the 
tribe of children she met on the stairs by catching each one in 
her arms and giving him a good hug before setting him down 
again on his noisy feet. She found her mother in bed, knitting 
vigorously with fast and shaking Angers. 

“ I can’t get up, Carrie, my dear, for if I did I should fall on 
my knees and pray, and your father would be dreadfully angry. 
Hush — he is in his room dressing, and the door is not quite 
shut !” 

“ Hever mind him, mother. Pray always with heart and soul 
— pray night and day, mother, and put my name in your prayers 
too. How give me a good kiss, for I am going — going out for a 
little while.” 

“ Are you, my dear ? Well, I don’t wonder at that.” 


FROM THET OTHER SIDE. 


279 


“ Mother, promise me you won^t wonder at anything I do — 
promise me you will feel it to be kind and right, or you will know 
I should not do it.” 

“ I always know that, Carrie.” 

And so they kissed each other, and, with a long last look at 
her mother, Carrie was gone ; and in another minute she and 
Mary Armstrong were walking rapidly down a side-street where 
a carriage awaited them. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

Mr. Vicat opened the door of his son’s sitting-room, and call- 
ed out sharply — 

‘‘ Gilbert, are you ready ? ” 

There was no answer ; then he entered the room and saw it 
was empty. The bed-room within, communicating through an 
ante-chamber, was also empty. Beyond this was a small room 
which had been fitted up as a laboratory. The door of this was 
closed, but there issued from it a sweet and pungent odour which 
drove Mr. Vicat back from it with a look of fear and disgust on 
his face. 

“ At his experiments again,” he said contemptuously, “ and 
thinking more of them than of love or money. A queer fellow 
indeed, only fit to be a wizard as he is ! I wonder what ghost 
he is raising now. Well, Pll wait five minutes.” 

So^ watch in hand, Mr. Vicat waited. 

The five minutes appeared to him an hour, yet he kept his 
word with himself, and did not go to the door again till they had 
passed away into the great eternity of vanished time. And now 
he struck a sharp blow upon the panel, and cried angrily on his 
son’s name. 

A dead silence answered him. His face paled, partly with 
anger and partly with fear, and with strong hand and knee he 
forced open the door with sudden wrench. But he paused upon 
the threshold for one ghastly moment in the uncertainty of a 
horrible dread. 

Stretched upon a couch near the window, with the pale Lon- 
don sunshine streaming on his face, Gilbert lay dead. 

After that single instant of doubt, Mr. Vicat recognized the 


280 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


terrible truth, and, striding forward with panting breath and shak- 
ing lips, he laid his hard hand upon his son’s breast. 

There was no answering heart-beat to that cold touch, there 
was no breath issuing from the poor pale lips. 

Mr. Vicat raised his livid face from the vain search for life, and 
gazed around him with eyes from which for a moment all meaning 
had fled. The atmosphere was filled with a pure white smoke, 
which wreathed and curled all around and about him, and from 
the midst of it he saw — or seemed to see — the pale phantom of a 
battle, and amid the shadowy swords, amid the confusion that 
waved and rolled about him, stood Harold Olver unscathed. 

Mr. Vicat fell upon his knees, and his hair rustled on his head. 
He crawled to the door, passed through and closed it. In the 
outer room, away from that strange cloud, he recovered himself, 
and wiped his clammy forehead with a shaking hand. 

“ The man Olver is dead and buried ; Gilbert has killed him- 
self in raising his ghost. Ho, it is all fancy ! That stuflfin there 
which he has been burning crazes the brain. I believe I lost my 
senses through it. And now what is to be done ? Must all my 
schemes perish through this ? ” 

He glanced at the closed door with a look of fear, then, rising, 
he stole away quietly, shutting every door behind him with noise- 
less hand. In the same cautious way he crept down-stairs to the 
dining-room, where he took brandy from the sideboard and drank 
a glassful quickly. Then he went to Estrild, who was still 
waiting for his summons. By this time he was calm and re- 
sol ved. 

“ My dear, we must go to the ship without Gilbert. He is not 
well this morning ; he will follow us later. The clergyman will 
wait till he comes. You do not mind your wedding being delay- 
ed an hour or two ? ” 

Mind ? Why did the tightness at her heart suddenly cease ? 
Why did the cold apathy which had overpowered her change now 
to a glow of life] Was it because she was glad of such a slight 
reprieve as this? In another instant she reproached herself 
with selfishness. Oh, she was happy — certainly she was happy 
— in the thought of saving Gilbert I It was the only happiness 
left for her ; it was a duty, and she would never think of it with 
regret. 

“ I am ready to go,” she said, “ if you think it best.” 

It had been arranged that the marriage ceremony should take 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


281 


place on board the Venture, the special license permitting it ; this 
had been done from fear of Mrs. Vicat’s and Carriers interfer- 
ence, Mr. Vicat feeling that their presence might lead to results 
inimical to his interests. So all arrangements had been finished, 
and luggage sent to the ship before Carrie’s return. 

Mr. Vicat stood up at the farewell between Mrs. Vicat and 
Estrild. The poor frightened woman strained the girl in her 
arms and whispered a blessing over her. More she dared not 
say ; but her heart was big with fear. 

“ Carrie shall come on board and wish you good-bye,” said Mr. 
Vicat, when Estrild, looking round, asked for her eagerly. “ She 
seems to be out now.” 

Estrild descended the stairs, and then Mr. Vicat hurried back 
to his wife. 

“Anne, when I am gone, send at once for a doctor; I have 
just seen Gilbert, and he is very ill.” 

“ And he is not going with — with you ? ” exclaimed his wife. 

“ No ; he will follow us if better. But he is very ill — 1 have 
not told Estrild how ill.” 

“ Then perhaps there will be no wedding ? ” said Mrs. Vicat 
hopefully. 

“ It is possible. I hope that will comfort you.” 

She stared, not understanding him ; but he had closed the 
door, and was gone. 

He placed Estrild in the carriage waiting for them ; and then 
followed a long silent drive, for the girl wept quietly, and the 
man gazed from the window with hard set face, or at times 
gnawed his fingers as though tormented by fiendish thoughts. 

Down by the river, through narrow streets, past busy wharves 
and forests of tall masts, towards broader and broader reaches 
of the Thames, till the ship at last was in view. 

“ There is the Venture /” cried Mr. Vicat, rising himself as if 
from deep thought. “ You will find your money is well spent, 
Estrild — she is a floating palace.” 

“I am glad for Gilbert’s sake,” she answered ; and she looked 
with interest at the ship — the dream-ship — that was to bring 
him health and fame. 

A boat awaited them, whose crew rowed them swiftly to the 
Venture, and on the deck the Captain came forward to greet 
them. Everything was strange to Estrild, but this man was 
strangest of all. He was unlike a seaman, and his face wore 


282 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


the furtive aspect of a creature who had long lived in fear — who 
had looked behind him in trembling, and had peered and peeped 
and quivered at shadows. 

“ Where is the invalid young gentleman ? he asked, looking 
down into the boat as if to search for him. 

“ He was not able to come with us,’^ said Mr. Vicat, paling a 
little. 

“ Ah, I remember you told me he must have a carriage ex- 
pressly arranged for him ! Not able to sit up long ! Poor fel- 
low, I hope the voyage will restore him. He will join the young 
lady soon, I suppose, sir 1 

“Yes,” said Mr. Yicat, with a smile that flitted across his lips 
in an ugly way. “My niece and son will soon be united.” 

Estrild walked to the side and leaned over the bulwarks, look- 
ing down into the water. The misgiving at her heart was filling 
her with fear ; her enthusiasm had faded ; she longed for a sight 
of Gilbert’s face, that, in seeing it, she might feel again that she 
was right to sacrifice herself to save him. 

“ Come down, my dear, and see the cabins,” said Mr. Vicat. 
“ And I want to introduce you to the Captain’s wife. It will be 
pleasant for you to have a lady with you, so I was glad to give 
him leave to take her. There is a stewardess too — a very clever 
woman, they tell me — engaged about an hour ago. They had a 
difficulty in finding one for such a long voyage.” 

The cabins were beautiful, and Estrild admired them, her 
mind dwelling constantly by an eflbrt on the result to be attain- 
ed for Gilbert through this ship — this long voyage which stretch- 
ed before her in darkness. 

“ Isn’t the ship lovely, miss ? ” 

And Estrild turned at the sudden voice, and saw the Captain’s 
wife, a pale-haired woman, with pale eyes also, but so full of 
light that they seemed to hide a fire behind them. Determina- 
tion sat upon her strong jaw and firm lips, and her light hair 
waved about her head like flames. 

Estrild shrank from her for a moment, but she had a pleasant 
smih' and a sweet voice, and these overcame the repugnance. 

“ Yes ; and the ship has cost a lovely price,” said Mr. Vicat, 
with a sort of ghastly gaiety. 

“ Then I hope she is insured,” laughed the Captain’s wife. 

No one answered ; and Mr. Vicat now held out both hands to 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


285 


Esfcrild in an awkward way, a little laugh on his lips^ but his 
face drawn and pale. 

“ My dear, I had better leave you now. I am a little anxious 
about Gilbert. The clergyman will be here in a moment • and 
— and, you see, he is not arrived.” 

Estrild uttered not a word ; her hands lay in his lifeless — 
something was heavy at her heart. Gilbert’s coming seemed to 
her now a terror ; he was right in rejecting this marriage ; per- 
haps he meant never to come. The faint hope was a relief to 
her pent-up heart, and her tears fell. One touched Mr. Yicat’s 
hand, and he started back as though it burnt his flesli. 

In another moment he was gone, and Estrild was left alone 
with the Captain’s wife. 

****** 

Evening was fast falling into night before Mr. Yicat re-enter- 
ed his home. He found his wife with face swollen with weeping, 
her aspect full of terror and grief. 

“ Gilbert is dead,” she said, without looking up at him. 

“ I knew it before I left,” he answered. 

“ And yet you took Estrild to that ship ! Oh, Mr. Yicat, 
what have you done 1” 

** What have I done ? ” he echoed fiercely. I have saved you 
from the workhouse and your children from the streets. Don’t 
you know I am on the verge of bankruptcy and ruin ? But for 
Estrild’s money, the smash would have come long ago. Gilbert’s 
little fortune went last year. I told him so — perhaps that killed 
him.” 

“ No,” answered his frightened wife, “ it was the smoke — the 
drugs he was burning ; the doctor said they were dangerous,” 

“Well, well,” said Mr. Yicat soothingly, “I am sorry ; but 
the poor fellow’s life was n:.t worth much to him — it would be 
foolish to grieve.” 

“ Estrild fancied his life was worth millions to others, or she 
would never have consented to your schemes. Mr. Yicat, I im- 
plore you to tell me the truth. Is she safe 1 Is the ship safe 

“ Safe ]” he repeated with a laugh. “ Of course she is ! At 
ail events, there’ll be no accident in the river or the Channel, for 
the Captain has engaged a skilled pilot, who was to come on 
board when I left and take them safely to the Land’s End.” 

“ Thank God I” said Mrs. Yicat, drawing a great b|*eatb of 


284 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


relief< “ I — I don’t know what I have been fearing or thinking. 
JSTow I can let you read this !” 

She pushed a letter towards him which had been hidden by 
her work ; he took it in his hand, saw Carrie’s writing and read 
this — 

“ Dearest Mother — I am on board the Yenture with Estrild. 
I offered myself as stewardess, and was accepted by the Captain’s 
wife. Do not grieve ; remember what I said this morning — 
that I was doing right. Tell father I am here !” 

Mr. Vicat laid the letter down with a shaking hand. His 
face was utterly colourless to the lips, which stood over his teeth 
quivering, not covering them. For an instant he stood dazed, 
his distended eyeballs glaring at his wife, yet not seeing her. 
She rose in terror, and seized him by the arm ; but he burst from 
her, rushed to the door, and fled out into the street. 

It was a stormy night, but he bent his livid face against the 
rain, not feeling it, not staying his hurried steps till he reached 
the nearest posting-house. Here he ordered a chaise and four 
horses. 

‘‘Five guineas,” he cried to the post-boys, “if you can reach 
Gravesend in time to catch my ship the Yenture /” 

On through the sullen night, the darkness, the splashing rain 
they dashed with headlong speed, yet to him the pace Seemed 
never fast. He looked out upon the diminishing lamps, and to 
keep back his rushing thoughts he counted them till the last was 
gone. But, when the country road was spread before him, dim- 
ly lighted by a clouded moon, he saw a ship in every shadow — 
a ship foundering at sea, and the boats stealing away with the 
traitor crew. 

Carrie — the one human being who had a grasp upon his cold 
heart — Carrie! Could he — might he save her yet? It was in- 
fernal, this breaking up of his well-laid plans — the loss of fortune 
— this ruin now staring him in the face — yet it was all nothing 
if he could save Carrie, if he could countermand those secret 
orders whispered in a flend’s ear. 

Could it be his wife’s prayers that had ruined his great 
scheme? Strangely enough, as he asked himself this question, 
he felt a touch of comfort in thinking she had said, “ God pros- 
per the good ship 1” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


285 


Then he took to saying these words over and over again, till 
they lost all meaning, and he laughed aloud, and caught himself 
back from the idiocy with a sudden shock. This sobered him, 
and he vvrenched his mind away from the ship "and from his 
daughter. But now, instead of the surging sea and sails sinking, 
sinking ever lower, another vision tormented him. In every 
flash of the carriage-lamps upon rain-glistening hedge he saw his 
dead son’s face — the son whom he had crippled and hated ever 
after — the son at whom he had scofled and jeered, and for whom 
no tear had dimmed his hard eyes. Yet at this dread moment 
of his life he almost called aloud to him for help ; he stretched 
gaunt hands widly towards the fleeting vision of the pale spirit- 
ual face, and whispered with white lips — 

Oh, that your dream was true, and I could flash a message 
through the lightning, or, like a sorcerer, fling my words upon 
the air to reach her ear ! ” 

Then he checked himself again, feeling his brain was quivering 
between reason and unreason. 

“Poor boy ! ” he said, givins: his son a pitiful thought at last. 
“He was doubtless a little mad — a dreadful thing to stand upon 
the balance and know not if the sound or unsound shall weigh 
you down ; yet if he w’ere living I should go to him for help. 
He could do strange things.” 

The light of a lamp gleamed upon the carriage window. 
Gravesend was reached, and brain and heart were beating again* 
with the agony of his impatience and fear. 

Down by the river, with fevered questions and answers from 
slow bargemen or lazy lookers-on. 

A ship gone past — the Venture ? Oh, yes, she sailed down 
hours ago — went with a fair wind — must be well out at sea by 
now ! 

Sick at heart as Jephthah was when his daughter came to 
meet her death with dance and song, the miserable man turned 
away from the dark river, and went back to his inn, believing, 
disbelieving, stopping to question again and again, then going 
on with ever heavier and heavier thoughts. 

There was still one hope left — Portsmouth. The pilot might 
be landed there, and he would go out to the Venture in the boat 
signalled for, and drag his daughter away to safety and to land. 
A sort of rage possessed him in the fever of his hope, and he felt 
that he could and would save Carrie only ; the other — the girl 


286 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


who hikd caused this agony — should go on in the doomed ship in 
spite of clinging arms or wild cries for pity. 

ordered out fresh horses, and meanwhile wrote a lying letter 
to his wife. 

Uv 4 jent business called him away. He might be absent two 
or three days. If an inquest was demanded on his son, she must 
keep secret the fact that he was aware of his death when he left 
the house that morning. He would bring Carrie home v,^ith him 
— this was certain — quite certain — he would bring her home. 
And she had better see Tom, and ask him if he knew 

Here he dashed down his pen, for his eyes were bloodshot with 
rage, and he longed to have his hands on the throat of the man 
who had helped his daughter to her death. 

“ The horses are put to, sir.^^ 

He addressed his unfinished letter, sent it to the post, paid for 
the discharged chase, and once more journeyed on through the 
storm-driven night. 

At Portsmouth, at Lloyd’s — where they telegraphed to South- 
ampton in the old way, forgotten now — he could learn no tidings 
of the ship, except that she had passed in full sail. 

He lingered, he waited, he asked countless questions on pier 
and strand, till he was pointed out as the madman who had lost 
his ship. Then he turned homewards, singing and talking to 
himself as the chaise rattled on through the long miles to Lon- 
don, 

A haggard man with white hair appeared like a spectre before 
a sad woman sewing at her mourning-dress ; and, looking round 
eagerly, he said — 

‘‘ Is Carrie come home ? ” 

“ Oh, Mr. Vicat, you know she is on board the Ventm'e /” 

“Yes — gone to her death unless she tells them she is my 
child. But you said, ‘ God prosper the ship 1 * Anne, it would 
be weP to pray for her.** , 




FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


287 


I CHAPTER XXXIX 

Mr. YicaPs departure struck a chill upon Estrild’s heart, for 
she had clung even to him of late ; and now that he was gone she 
; felt utterly forsaken and her mind was full of a dull aching 
dread. 

“ You look tired, miss,’’ said the Captain’s wife. “ Let me get 
you a cup of tea.” 

The woman’s light eyes were fixed on her in a scrutinising 
way, and Estrild shrank from their gaze instinctively ; yet her 
voice rang so sweetly in her ear that in a moment it overcame 
this dim repugnance, and she answered readily that she would be 
glad of the tea. 

It was soon fetched, and while Estrild was drinking it the 
Captain’s wife talked rapidly, expatiating on the loveliness of 
the land to which they were bound. 

“ And the sea is as blue as sapphire, the sky is bluer still, the 
shore is fringed with flowers, and on the heights above are groves 
of olive and of palm, and the sweet bright air is laden with the 
scent of orange and citron, mingled with the perfume of rose 
and lily. Oh, it is a country to live and die in, miss !” 

“ X ot to die in, I hope,” said Estrild, putting down her cup. 

The woman refilled it, and talked on of Italy, of India, and 
the sunny isles of the Pacific ; and Estrild leaning back on the 
velvet couch on which she sat, listened dream i^, for her sweet 
voice seemed to blend with the sounds in the Aip and the soft 
plash of waves against her sides. 

Voices were hailing a boat — how far off they sounded ! Then 
a voice answered, and Estrild started up with a sudden glow 
upon her face. 

“ Who is that ?” she cried, falling back upon the sofa as she 
spoke, feeling strangely giddy. 

‘‘It is only the pilot come on board,” said the woman with a 
scrutinising look into her very eyes ; and apparently satisfied, 
she moved the tea-tray a little aside to give room for her rounded 
elbow to rest upon the table. “ I have been a seaman’s wife 
ever since I was fifteen,” she continued, “ but I should not like 
to go down Channel without a pilot, especially with my present 
husband.” 

She laughed a little, and her light eyes were fixed on Estrild’a 


288 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


face again. Somehow her voice seemed changed — it had grown 
coarse. 

“Having got our pilot, I don’t think we shall let him go 
again in a hurry. He believes he’ll be put ashore ” 

She stopped, for Estrild’s eyes were closed, but the cessation 
of that continuous voice caused a sort of wonder, and, opening 
them, she saw the Captain’s wife in a haze, her light eyes fixed 
on her strangely, and her light hair hanging loosely and glitter- 
ing like limp snakes sleeping. 

Estrild half rose with an effort, and putting out her hands 
gropingly, she said, or tried to say — 

“ I — I want air. I will go on deck and — and see the pilot.” 

“ Not yet, my pretty,” said the woman, with her cruel little 
laugh ; and, bending over her unconscious victim, she laid strong 
hands upon her slender arms, and so pressed her down upon the 
couch — in a dead sleep now ; and, covering her with a shawl, she 
gave her one look, as if to reassure herself, and then hurried 
away. 

On the deck she found her husband, and whispered to him — 

“ Hoist sail, and away ! She’s safe for four hours.” 

The pilot, standing near the mainmast, gave her one glance as 
she passed him swiftly ; then he turned his back on her, and 
when she retraced her steps he was leaning on the bulwarks 
watching the raising of the anchor. 

* * * * * * 

It was night when Estrild awoke. She was in her cabin, a 
lamp was swinging slowly to and fro with the motion of the ship, 
the tramp of feet was overhead, the creaking of cordage was in 
her ears, mingling with the surging of waves and the dash of 
spray upon the deck. 

She listened for a moment, and then started up in her berth 
with a sense of loneliness and fear that seized upon her with a 
sudden horror. 

“We are at sea 1 ” she said to herselb “ What can it mean ? ” 

But no answer came to her mind ; the thought of treachery 
was still unshaped ; a vague fear alone possessed her, and the 
heaviness and bewilderment caused by the drugged tea had not 
yet passed away. Overcome by the stupor of the opium she had 
taken, she fell back on her pillow and slept again. 

On her next awaking it was bright morning ; the wind was 
fresh, a keen air blew in through the half-opened window of the 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


289 


cabin, and some neat hand had made all things around her take i 
a home-like look. But this could not remove the terror which 
fell upon her with the morning light ; her mind was clear now, 
and, though she could not grasp the whole situation, enough 
of the truth was visible to show her she was alone on the sea and 
in the power of the captain and his cruel wife. 

She wrung her hands tightly together and burst into bitter 
tears. 

Who were they ? Did they mean to kill her 1 Had they 
taken advantage of her uncle’s absence to set sail ; or was it — 
could it be possible that she was the victim of a plot on his part ? 
An instant conviction that this was the true fact seized upon 
her ; and the tears dried suddenly with the appalling thought, and 
the blood rushed to her heart, leaving her deadly pale. Utterly 
forlorn, powerless, alone, how was she to defend her life 'I What 
could her weak hands do to save it? Nothing ! She must try 
to be content to die, if this ship meant death for her ; and better 
die here than to be set ashore of some desolate rock or island to 
die a thousand deaths in one. 

The fear of this fate was worse than the fear of a quick death ; 
she covered her face with her hands, and with white lips uttered 
a prayer softly, mingling Harold’s name and Tristram’s with her 
words, saying they could help her if they lived ; but God had 
taken them, so God must be her friend now. 

Some one came and stood by her as she prayed — she had not 
heard the door unclosed gently — but she did not look up ; she 
thought it was the Captain’s wife, and the instincts of her heart 
told her the woman was a fiend. 

But a kind soft hand took her hands down from her eyes, and 
then she saw Carrie — Carrie, with a smile on her lips, but her 
cheeks wet with tears. 

Estrild gazed at her for one second as in the amazement of a 
dream, then she flung her arms about her, and, holding her 
tightly, cried for joy. To have Carrie here, to see her good, 
happy, beaming face was like the lifting of a stone from her 
sepulchre and calling her forth again to light and life. 

“ Oh, Carrie, how thankful I am ! I feel safe now,” 

“ Do you ? ” said Carrie, half smiling, half tearful. “ I wish I 
did.” 

“ But is there anything to fear ? ” asked Estrild, paling again. 

“ I cannot tell you,” returned Carrie. “ Bemember, it is my 

S 


290 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


father who has brought you here/^ She held Estrild’s hand 
tightly and turned away her face. “ I have joined you,” she 
continued, “partly to show father that I trust him; but, re- 
member, 1 am here as stewardess and you must not betray that 
you know me. That might cost us our lives. Estrild, I do not 
deny that our situation is perilous — whether by my father’s fault 
or his misfortune I cannot say. T hope the last. I felt sure he 
would not hurt his son, so I believe — I hoped — he meant no 
harm to you, and with Mary’s help I am here. In the ship 
where he placed the lives of his son and niece I thought he 
could trust the life of his daughter also. If no harm befall me, 
then he will know that I flung my fate into the balance, hoping 
— hoping ” — for a moment Carrie broke down, but recovered her- 
self quickly — “hoping,” she said, “that his better nature would 
prevail ; for, Estrild, he is not all bad — he is not indeed ; and he 
loves me dearly, and all the more because he fears me a little. 
I am trying to believe — yes, I do believe — that he has been de- 
ceived by this villain whom he has made Captain of the ship, 
and that he set sail contrary to his orders as soon as he had left 
yom” 

“ Then he never came back 1 ” Estrild cried. “ And Gilbert is 
not here 1 ” 

“ No, he is not here ; ” and Carrie spoke in a low grave voice. 

“ I am thankful,” Estrild answered, “ that he is spared the 
pain of sharing our fear. Carrie, wdiat is it you think we have 
to dread ? ” 

“ I think, my dear, the Captain — aided by his wife — means to 
seize the ship and cargo and dispose of them in some South 
American port ; but before he could do this safely, he would hawe 
to rid himself of you — and of me,” she added, “ if he once sus- 
pected me.” 

Estrild’s eyes, large with terror, were fixed and dilated, as, 
holding her hand with both hers, she whispered — 

“ Carrie, last evening the woman gave me something that took 
away my senses. Do you think she will poison me ? ” 

A footstep sounded outside, and Carrie instantly changed her 
voice and attitude. 

“ It is a fine morning, miss ; I think you will feel better if you 
get up.” 

The door was softly opened, and the white shining face of the 
Captain’s wife looked within. She nodded to Estrild with her 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


291 


sweetest smile, and made some remark upon the weather, and 
hoped she was better than she seemed on the previous night — 

‘‘ When you fainted, miss, quite suddenly, and the stewardess 
and I had to carry you to bed. I hope you are bright and fresh 
this morning. Miss Hyde ? ” she added, turning to Carrie. 

Carrie dropped her a curtsey, and assured her she was well. 

“ I am never sea-sick/' she said ; “ neither is Miss Carbonellis 
— so she tells me.” 

“ I am so used to the sea,” said Estrild, steadying her voice. 

“ I dare say you have wondered, miss, that your uncle did not 
return before we sailed ; but we only obeyed orders in starting at 
once. Doubtless he will explain his reasons by-and-by. Perhaps 
you will see him at Portsmouth when we land the pilot.” 

In saying this the Captain’s wife kept her light hazel eyes fix- 
ed on Estrild’s face with a defiant and watchful look, as if daring 
her to disbelieve her word or distrust her in any way. And, al- 
though very pale, Estrild bore this scrutiny so well that the wo- 
man, reassured, closed the door and walked away, saying to her- 
self — 

“ Ah, it is the opium has given her that white dazed look ! 
She suspects nothing ; and the young woman Hyde is a fool.” 

For a moment after she was gone the two girls uttered not a 
word ; they only looked into each other’s eyes and felt their 
hearts tremble. 

“ Carrie, who is the pilot ? ” whispered Estrild. 

“ I don’t know, but he looks like an honest maa And he must 
be that, for Mary Armstrong found him and sent him here. Es- 
trild, if on board her father’s ship your brother lost his life, then 
on board the Venture she will save yours. I cannot tell you now 
all that she has done. I must wait till a happier time.” 

“ Did Miss Armstrong send the pilot ? Then last night I was 
dreaming, for I thought I knew his voice. Carrie, what is my 
life to her ? Why does she care for me ? ” 

Carrie shook her head in answer. 

Mary has her secrets, and this is one of them. Estrild, she 
gave me a letter for you ; have you courage to read it now ? It 
is from Gilbert. My dear, I am sure he never meant to come on 
board this ship except as a brother ; he never meant to take you 
at your too generous word.” 

Estrild was dressed now, and she sat near the little window 
of the cabin with the letter in her hand. The sight of Gilbert’s 


292 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


writing brought with it a pang of mingled pain and pity ; she 
had hoped to save his life for a world that would one day honour 
him, but now she felt that even for a whole world she could not 
have saved him at such a cost. Carrie stole a look at her, saw 
the colour mount into her pale cheeks, and guessed she had not 
courage to read the letter in her presence. 

Left alone, Estrild broke the seal with a trembling hand and 
read this — 

“ Estrild — You have not guessed the truth — that I love you, 
and, loving you, I have in a passionate moment of temptation 
deceived you. On that memorable night when I held your hand 
I willed — in my jealousy — with all my soul that you should not 
see Harold, whom you loved, but that a vision of the man by 
whose h^nd your brother died should come before you. I could 
not guess that you would see his funeral ; for worlds I would 
not have brought its reflection before you had I known it. Dur- 
ing your illness I suflered agonies of remorse, and I longed to 
confess the truth when I saw you, but you checked the words on 
my lips. And I am weak ; I yielded again to the tempestuous 
joy of my own heart in being with you, in hearing your dear 
voice, and in deceiving myself with the hope that one day you 
might learn to love me a little. Then you tempted me, Estrild, 
in your great pity, by oflfering to share your life with me ; and, 
although I refused the sacrifice, it was only a half-hearted ‘ No ^ 
I uttered. I longed to hear you plead again with me ; you 
pleaded for leave to save my life for the world, not knowing that 
you were my whole world to me. At that hour, though 1 would 
have died for you, I could not have told you that the man who has 
your love may, for aught I know, still be living. But now, when 
I must share this long voyage with you in the hope of life, I dare 
be silent no longer; I feel you would hate me if you heard the 
truth from another, and knew I had deceived you. Estrild, when 
you read thus far I know ybu will say in your heart that, if any 
doubt exists of Harold’s death, then you cannot put your hand 
in mine — ^you cannot be even the shadow of a wife to me. Sc 
be it then. I accept your decision, and own it right. But ] 
cannot help the human weakness that would fain have you 
understand that I make my confession in the full knowledge of 
all it means for me — the pangs of jealousy, the bitterness of 
being forsaken, the desolation, the loneliness, and — oh, Estrild, 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


293 


do not call me a coward ! — the cruelty of one to whom the sight 
of my misery is always a reproach. Estrild, my dearest, you 
will be very sad wlien you read this. I will speak of myself no 
more. 

‘‘I had written thus far when Mary came to me with help 
and comfort in her words, as she ever has. She rejoices at my 
decision to refuse all sacrifice at your hands except the one al- 
ready made in the purchase of the Venture, She does not advise 
me to give up the voyage which you undertake for my sake — to 
do this would be grief to you — and she feels that Carrie’s pres- 
ence and mine will be a guarantee for your safety. She has 
fears which she will not explain. I have none ; I feel I am 
going on a happy voyage to a lovelier land than any I have seen 
in a vision or dreamed of in hope. 

“ When we meet I trust to bring you a joyful message from a 
far-off country, for I have resolved to discover in what land your 
lover lives. Then we will spread the sails of the Ve'tUure towards 
that distant shore ; and, whether its breezes bring ^le death or 
life, I shall be happy in seeing your joy.” 

The letter lay on Estrild’s lap, and she looked fonih upon the 
sea with shining eyes. A thousand feelings possessed her as she 
read, but they were all thrust aside by the one great hope that 
Harold lived. Her instinct was right — he lived, and she should 
see him again. The peril of her present position passed from hei 
sight, Harold filled every vision of her soul, and joy like sunshine 
ran through every vein. If in this first flood of joy and hope she 
gave a thought to Gilbert, it was mingled with a regret that he 
had not joined her ; because then, through that strange lore he 
held, he would tell her where Harold was. This was selfish, but 
at the moment love was her other self, and all thoughts and feel- 
ings were but ministers of love. She could not pity Gilbert yet, 
or wonder at his absence except in that it touched Harold and 
herself. But, when Carrie entered the cabin again, then she felt 
ashamed, remorseful, and she tried to hide from her the radiance 
of her face. 

“ Carrie,” she said, “ Gilbert meant to join us. How is it he 
did not come ? ” 

“ Perhaps father stopped him,” said Carrie, growing white, 

“ or, as I have said, the villain who calls himself Captain here 
set sail purposely without him.” 


294 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Then, to Estrild’s dismay, Carrie burst suddenly into tears, 
and, falling upon her knees, clasped both hands around her, sob- 
bing forth — 

“ Estrild, I have heard from Tom that father is on the verge 
of ruin ! Men so situated are tempted more terribly than we 
women can dream of. If — if any thought has entered father’s 
mind that he would gain wealth and safety through — through 
the loss of the ship, will you try for my sake and Gilbert’s to 
think of him with pity ? ” 

“ Carrie, I would forgive him with all my heart. I am full of 
happiness and hope ; I will not believe in evil. Why do you 
suspect anything so terrible ? ” 

“ My dear, it is because part of Mary’s and my plan has failed. 
Before the ship set sail father was to know I was here, resolved 
to share with you the perils of the sea. He would receive my 
letter on returning home ; after that he would come back to the 
ship with Gilbert, and, knowing enough of me to be aware that 
nothing would change my determination, there would remain 
only the alternative to take us all ashore — for I would not go 
without you — or let us sail in safety. Now you know what 
happened. Neither Gilbert nor my father came, and the ship 
sailed while he was still ignorant that his daughter’s life was in 
the hands of the villain whom he had made master of our fate. 
Now the agonising doubt is my mind ” — and Carrie pressed her 
hand upon her forehead — “ is whether he gave orders to this man 
to sail or whether he has himself done this in fulfilment of some 
vile scheme of his own.” 

“ Oh, your father meant to return, Carrie ! ” Estrild said 
soothingly. “ Remember, he did not know the marriage he had 
planned was given up in both Gilbert’s mind and mine.” 

“ So you had come to your senses,” Carrie said ; and a smile 
rested for a moment on her lips. “It was a wild romantic 
notion on your part, born of your dreariness and despair, and it 
was a wickedness of father’s. What it was on Gilbert’s I fear 
I cannot guess. I am sorry for him. Oh, Estrild, 1 am afraid 
something dreadful has happened; otherwise he would have 
come ! ” 

“ But doubtless he and your father came and found the ship 
gone.” 

“ No, no,” Carrie answered ; “ for after the pilot came on board 
there was still a delay of two hours before we sailed. You were 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


295 


sleeping, and I sat upon the deck watching for a boat till niy 
heart seemed to stand still with fear. You see there was time — 
plenty of time — for father to return to the ship. And — and I did 
not give up hope till the sails were set.” 

“And during those two hours, Carrie, you might have gone 
ashore in safety.” 

“ I might, and have branded myself for a coward ever after- 
wards. And I would not break my promise to Mary Armstrong 
to stand by you while I had a breath of life left ; I trust in her, 
and I care for you. Could I leave you, knowing that you were 
lying here senseless through that terrible woman’s wickedness ? ” 

Estrild stooped and kissed her ; words could not speak the 
gratitude she felt towards the brave girl who had risked all for 
her saka Mutually they now agreed to cease discussion on the 
point of Mr. Vicat’s guilt, and to watch warily the course of 
events. 

Estrild breakfasted with the Captain^s wife, and with natural 
suspicion partook only of those dishes of which she ate herself. 
Carrie waited on them, and, like the clever woman she was, she 
acted her part to perfection, and with a careless ease that was, 
in fact, admirable courage. 

“Would you like to go on deck ?” said the Captain’s wife, 
with her sweet voice tuned to its first civility. “We are out of 
sight of land now, and there’s nothing to be seen but sea and sky 
— and that’s rather dull for you.” 

“Not for me,” Estrild answered. “ I have lived all my life 
within sound of the sea.” 

She was soon on deck, and standing at the wheel she saw the 
stalwart form and met the steady brave eyes of Daniel Pascoe. 


CHAPTER XL. 

The ship in which Harold sailed from the Cape met with 
rough weather, and was driven from her course ; and at length, 
when she reached Maderia, some slight repairs were needed, 
which detained her there a fortnight. One day, at nearly the 
end of the second week, a fast merchantman, schooner- rigged, 
put into the bay and anchored for a few hours. Harold, having 
nothing to do, rowed out to take a look at her, meaning to board 


296 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


and get English news if he could ; but, to his surprise, he and his ;;! 
boat’s crew were hailed before they reached her side, and told | 
peremptorily that no strangers were permitted on board. ; 

Upon this Harold stood up in his boat and tendered his card, ’ 
saying he would be glad to speak to the Captain for a moment. 

The man on watch, on receiving this request, remarked surlily 
that he had nothing to do with people’s cards or messages — he 
had only to obey orders, and the boat must sheer olF at once. 
And, touching his forelock grimly, he retired from the bulwarks 
and was lost to view. 

Wishing him all the plagues of Egypt, Harold was about to 
order his boatmen to row away, when there flitted before his 
sight at a cabin window the face of Estrild. 

For an instant his heart stood still, for he felt as though a 
spirit had passed before him ; then he ask.- d if he was mad or 
dreaming, and a minute had gone by before speech came to' his 
white lips. He looked up at the cabin window, but a curtain 
was drawn before it now, presenting to his eyes a blank of dull 
yellow. Then he ordered his men to row round the ship, vague- 
ly hoping for some sign of Estrild’s presence as a proof that he 
had net been deceived by fancy or some unaccountable likeness 
or mirage. But there was no fluttering robe visible on deck, no 
beckoning hand from cabin window, no sign on the ship’s blank 
sides to assure his bewildered mind, that a deceptive vision had 
not touched his eyes and vanished. Then a man came to the 
gangway, and, leaning over, called out, in a high but quavering 
voice — 

“ I hear you wish to speak to me — I am Captain Sinclair.” 

Startled by some echo in the voice that touched his memory, 
Harold lo'^ked in the Captain s face and recognized him instant- 
ly. It was Trevel’s friend — the man with the scared pale aspect 
of a hunted creature — the man who had shot his wife, and was 
hiding with a herd of other outcasts in the den H irold had such 
reason to remember. 

A breathless instant passed, in which he saw the recognition 
was not mutual, owing perhaps to his being bronzed and changed 
by the sun of India. 

‘‘ I only wished to ask for English news,” he said carelessly. 

I know of none,” returned the Captain, his voice still curi- 
ously wavering and changing in its key. 

Can’t I come on board ? ” asked Harold. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


297 


** No ; I am forbidden by the authorities to receive any one ; 
we have two or three men down with fever. I only put in here 
for fruit and green stuff for them.” 

And you have a lady on board,” said Harold, hiding the 
anxious tone of his voice by a laugh. 

The strange Captain, who had no look of a sailor about him, 
retreated a step at this, and looked over his shoulder towards the 
cabin on the poop. Perhaps some sign ^reached him from the 
curtained window, for, coming back, he answered — 

“ Yes ; I have my wife with me.” 

As he spoke the cabin door was opened, a woman walked a 
step or two from it, then returned and closed it. Harold saw her 
plainly, for the sunshine poured broadly over her strong lithe 
figure, her powerful jaw, and her cruel light eyes of fire. She 
was not changed ; mentally he saw her instantly again as he had 
last seen her, with a lamp flaring in her white face, throwing a 
ruddy hue on her curiously lighted hair, as she held back with 
one strong hand the man who was now leaning with crossed 
arms upon the bulwarks, looking down upon him with furtive 
shrinking eyes. 

So he has married that woman ! ” Harold said to himself. “ A 
she-fiend, if ever one walked in human form ! How could I have 
mistaken her face for Estrild's? It is impossible ! ” 

Bewildered and full of angry doubt, he looked keenly in the 
man’s face, longing to cry out, “ Is there no one on my side who 
will fling him down*? ” 

“ So that’s your wife ? ” he said. “ Can’t I do anything for her 
or for you on shore. Captain Sinclair ? ” 

“ Much obliged, but I think not,” replied the other shortly. 
“ I shall get away from this hot place, I hope, to-morrow. I 
would never have put in here, but my best hand, whom I took 
on board as pilot, is down with fever, and my wife fancies there 
isn’t a man aboard but him fit to work this ship ; so I had to put 
in for fruit and wine — curse him I — whether I would or no.” 

“ So there is the old jealousy in the man still,” thought Har- 
old ; and, baffled, angry, and full of heart-ache, he returned to 
the shore, doubting the evidence of his own eyesight in that flit- 
ting vision of Estrild’s face, and wondering whether it was his 
duty to tell the English Consul what he knew of the man who 
called himself Captain Sinclair and had the command of the good 
ship the Venture, 


298 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


He decided to see the Consul, and toiled up the steep ascent to 
his house through dust and glare, only to gain a rebuff. 

It was clearly no business of his Brittanic Majesty’s Consul to 
interfere between owners and any captain they might choose to 
appoint to command their merchant- vessels. If the man was a 
scamp, that was their look-out, not his ; so Harold was politely 
dismissed, and returned to his inn to chew the cud of many bit- 
ter thoughts. 

Estrild's long and cruel silence — what could it mean ? Had 
she never received his letters, or was she faithless ? No ; he 
would not believe that possible ; hers was no light nature that 
could love and love again. Then, like an unbent bow, his mind 
bounded back to old times and to the mystery and sorrow that 
had separated them and had brought into his life such strange 
risks and changes. Battles and griefs, sickness and danger — all 
had come to him through his wild quest for Tristram’s slayer. 

The long, hot, dull day had worn to its close when he came 
down from the hill, and the gall and smart within him drove him 
again to the shore in a sort of angry longing for a sight of the 
ship which had shown him a false vision of his love. 

The Yentnre was gone ; there was a vacant spot on the sea 
where in the morning the big merchant ship had loomed large 
and dark against the blue sky. 

Harold turned away in a spiritless and angry mood. Earth, 
sea, and sky were a blank to him — he felt at enmity with the 
world. That ship 

“ Beg pardon, sir, but are you the Inglis Captain Olver 1 ” 

The question came from a little yellow man with a black beard 
and big gold rings in his ears, who plied a shore-boat and sold 
fruit to incoming and outgoing ships. 

‘‘ Yes, my name is Giver. Have you any business with me 
asked Harold, in sharp impatience. 

“ This for the Inglis Captain ; ” and the yellow man took a 
letter from beneath a greasy jacket lying in his boat. 

Estrild^s writing ! Harold seized the letter with a hand of 
fire. 

Looking on, the man smiled complacently and talked his fill. 

Yes, it was the lovely young Inglesa on board the big ship 
that sailed two, three hours agone for the Cape who had given 
him the letter, and he waited till the ship had sailed before he 
found the Signor Captain. Was the letter right? 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


299 


Harold looked up in blind agony ; like Samson, he would fain 
have laid his hands upon the pillars which held up the triumph- 
ant laughing lives of his foes, and have fallen with them in 
bitter gladness. 

Why had the man not given the letter sooner ? What did 
the lady say? Was she well? How was she looking? A 
thousand useless questions rushed to Harold’s lips from his heart 
as he stood gazing into the face of the man who had seen Estrild. 
This insignificant little yellow creature grew to be a prince in 
his eyes — a being to be envied and wondered at ; he had had 
speech with an angel. And yet Harold’s soul was full of anger 
against this stranger to whom Estrild had spoken, while to him 
she had denied the hearing of her voice, the sight even of her 
shadow. 

“ What did she say to you ?” he cried impatiently. 

“ The Signora had no time for speech ; the other lady coi^e 
and ask me sharply what I do there, and the young lady go away 
directly. Excellency will understand it was like this. I sell 
my fruit, and she come on deck and buy some ; and she pay me 
with a gold piece and whisper, ‘ This is yours if you take this 
letter to the Inglis gentleman — you can read address ?’ 1 nod 

‘Yes’ and hide the letter in my basket. And the pale lady dart 
out from cabin quick as lizard, and no more words pass. The 
letter will tell more to the excellency than I can.” 

Harold tore it open, and found these pencilled lines — 

“ I am safe, though in strange hands. Daniel is with me, and 
other friends ; now you will not fear for my safety. I implore 
you not to pursue the ship, ‘but to meet me at Langarth. You 
will hear she is gone to the Cape. Believe nothing you hear, but 
await in England a letter from me, summoning you to Langarth. 
I can explain nothing ; I can only entreat you not to heed any 
of the reasons that seem to point to another course. Oh, Harold, 
I wish you could understand the agony of entreaty in whicli I 
write this ! But how can I expect you will, when the angu’sh 
of my prayer and the foreboding of death I shall feel if you re- 
fuse it are incomprehensible even to myself ? I know that my 
life depends on your acquiescence, but how I know it I cannot 
tell you. It is a mysterious warning spoken in the spirit — lis- 
ten to it, my first and only love, or elso 1 die ; the fear of your 


300 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


refusal comes upon me like a great darkness in which I grope 
and fall into a grave. 

“ I write strongly because I know you will feel tempted to 
follow the Venture to the Cape. Harold, you will not see me 
there. Do not rush after a mistaken duty because you perceive I 
am a kind of prisoner — do not alarm yourself for this or exagger- 
ate the dangers of my position. I repeat, I am safe and well 
and happy. How can I help being happy, knowing now that 
you live and still love me ? For more than a yeer I believed you 
dead ; and I have been ill, as you have been ; but my voyage 
and my joy have brought back health. Daniel has told me all 
you have done and suffered. Oh, my dearest, I thought once it 
was not possible to love you better than I did in the old days, 
but I know now that I love you ten times more than I did then ! 
Dearest, farewell ! I hasten to seize the only chance I have to 
send you this. We sail immediately — I hear the orders given. 
DaniePs slight illness greatly perplexes and puts in fear 

Here the letter broke off, and. Harold, clutching it tightly, as 
though some strange hand would tear it from him, gazed up- 
wards and around him with the bewildered angry grief of a man 
who feels his last opportunity of action is gone. Why had he 
not insisted on boarding the ship ? Why had he not forced the 
English Consul to free Estrild from the clutches of these villains 
who held her prisoner? What accursed bewilderment had come 
over him that, blinded to the truth of her presence, he had not 
acted while there was yet time ? And why was she on board 
the Venture Surely some devilry was going on of which she was 
the victim, and which she either could not understand or dared 
not explain ? 

And now he began to consider what he could do to save her. 
The fastest boat he could hire would have no chance of overtak- 
ing the great ship speeding on with all sails set. And, if he 
followed her to the Cape, as reasons and impatience urged him 
to do, how was he to find a vessel in which to take his passage ? 

“ At what hour did the ship sail ? Harold asked the ques- 
tion in a voice so filled with pain and with eyes so lighted with 
wrath and anguish that the little yellow man glared at him in 
amazement. 

The exact hour ? Well, it might be four o'clock — yes, three 
hours ago — or more ; and she was gone to the Cape. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


301 


, Harold returned to his hotel without asking another question. 

! He was like a man dazed, lost in a bewildering wood without 
path, and seeking with bursting heart for some clue in the dark- 
I ness. There was too a surging rage within him that would have 
i burst into fury could he have met with an object on which to 
wreck it ; but he could only fall foul of himself, and, when he 
I had exhausted every epithet on what he deemed his folly in not 
boarding the Venture by storm, when he had twisted through 
I every avenue of thought, there still remained the wide black sea, 

' on whose heaving unanswering waste Estrild had been borne 
, away he knew not whither, there still remained his own ship 
riding at anchor, and there still stretched before him, like two 
lines of road leading to unknown ends, the alternative courses 
which he balanced and re-lalanced in his doubting mind. Should 
he wait here for the next ship bound for the Cape, or should he 
obey Estrild’s command and pursue his voyage to England? 

He read and re-read her letter again and again before he came 
to a decision, and could prevail on himself to renounce his long- 
ing desire to follow her. At last came the one clear thought 
that she had written with a truer perception of her own position 
than he could possibly have, and that he would do rightly in 
obeying her wish, though it might look to him like abandoning 
her to her fate. Yet it was danger in England she evidently 
feared, and danger in the ship ; and he was fain to confess that 
to go to the Gape would be steering in the dark without a com- 
pass, whereas her letter pointed to a place of meeting, saying 
plainly, “ Come to me at Langarth, and save me from some dan- 
ger I dread.” What if he should go to the Cape and find the 
ship had never touched there, and then, when he was far away, 
the conviction should fall on him that she had, in fact, sailed for 
England, and Estrild was in some deadly peril from wliich he was 
powerless now to rescue her ? How would he bear his self-re- 
proach for not having believed and obeyed her ? 

This thought decided him. He had the comfort of knowing 
that Daniel, who was a tower of strength, was with her ; and he 
answered Estrild’s passionate prayer by going on board his 
own ship; and the next day found him at sea on his way to 
England. 


302 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

On seeing Daniel, Estrild had retained her self-possession. 
Except for a slight paleness which touched her face after its first 
flush, -no outward sign betrayed her recognition of a defender and 
a friend ; but an intense joy filled her heart, a sense of safety 
calmed every nerve, and she felt now that she had courage for 
any emergency. The deepest spring of joy lay, as she knew, 
in her belief that Harold lived ; and this fact she was constantly 
whispering to herself, till her eyes shone like stars in the bright- 
ness of her hope. She had an intense faith in the powers of her 
sorrowful cousin, so that the doubt expressed in his letter became 
to her a reality. She dwelt but seldom on the confession of his 
love ; it seemed to her to live only in the regions of his fancy. 
She was far from guessing that it was the sole great reality of 
his imaginative being ; still less could she devine that death 
had come to him through this love of which she thought so 
little. 

In her new-found tranquillity and happiness Estrild could wait 
patiently for the opportunity which she knew would come of 
speech with Daniel. When this time came, and she heard the 
history he had to relate, it was well for her that her heart was 
prepared for it, or her joy might have been too overwhelming. 
But there was much to temper it — anxiety at Harold^s present 
peril in the midst of war, the recollection of her own dreary 
grief, which had led her into the fatal mistake of yielding to Mr. 
VicaPs plans and offering her life to save Gilbert^ her own 
present danger and Carrie’s, in a ship commanded by a felon — - 
all this was sufficient to save her mind from being overbalanced 
by the intense joy that would fain have lifted her with airy 
wings above all thought of trouble. Again and again she had 
little snatches of talk with Daniel, which were to her like drink- 
ing an elixir of life ; and her cheeks glowed with health, her step 
grew firm, her young and hitherto fragile frame gained in vital 
force and took a nobler form of beauty. 

And yet sometimes she could listen to Daniel only with tears 
— for had he not to tell of Harold’s sickness, sufferings, and 
danger ? Then too she heard with a touch of fear, a little shrink- 
ing awe, the tale of Trevel’s death and last words, so strangely 
corroborating the vision seen in the crystal, the whisper breathed 
in the mysterious air Gilbert gathered from the far winds. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


303 


“And you think that man Trevel killed Tristram T she said, 
her eyes growing large with many thoughts. 

“ I am sure he did,’^ Daniel answered ; “but there lies a mys- 
tery behind the dead which no hand will ever unveil.^^ 

She was silent a moment, her heart heavy with the fate of 
her race. 

“ And this Captain Sinclair and his wife are the very man 
and the very woman you and Harold met in that dreadful 
place 

“ The very same, my dear. I knew them again the very in- 
stant I set eyes on them. And they are as tit for the devil’s 
work as Judas was.” 

Estrild grew a little pale, and Carrie, lying on the deck at 
her feet, looked up with frightened face. 

“ My father could never have meant harm to his son,” she 
said, dropping her head as she spoke. 

“ But his son isn’t here,” interjected Daniel. “ And he didn’t 
know his daughter would be. You are a brave girl, my dear ; 
and I’ll save this ship as much for her sake as Miss Estrild’s and 
the good girl that brought me here.” 

“ Tell her that story,” said Carrie. “ She doesn’t know Mary 
Armstrong.” 

“ Well, my dear, when Mr. Olver left me at the Cape, I look- 
ed about me for a ship going home, and I found one — and an old 
tub she was. She wrecked me and threw me up on an island 
like Jonah’s whale. No need to tell my adventures there, only 
it was three months before a ship put in for water and took me 
and others with me to Rio. There I fell ill of fever — and there’s 
a touch of it in my veins now — so it happened that a year and 
more passed away before I got on English ground again. I came 
to the port of London, poor and whisht as a wrecked mariner, 
and once more I looked round for a ship, this time to take me 
home to Cornwall. Down among the docks I heard of the Ven- 
ture ; but folks said the Captain was a skulk and the mate was a 
drunkard — which he is — so I gave her up. But one day, when 
I was was standing looking at her — for she is as handsome as a 
picture — I heard a voice at my elbow saying, ‘Are you going to 
pilot that ship down Channel, Captain f ‘No thank you, 
dearie,’ I said, looking down on her, thinking she was a child. 
‘The Captain and crew don’t suit me.’ Well, upon this she 
fixed me with her great earnest eyes, which look as if they had 


304 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


stars always shining in them, and I saw she was a woman for all 
her tiny stature; and I raised my hat a hit and I said, ‘Beg par- 
don, miss.^^ ‘No offence,’ she answered; ‘but if you would offer 
your services to the Captain of that ship you would be well re- 
warded for it. Stop — I don’t mean by money, but by saving 
human lives !’ I thought that queer, so I looked hard in her 
face, and saw truth in every line, and saw too there was far 
more behind her words than she herself could tell me. I felt as 
if her two hands were on my heart gripping it, and her eyes 
seemed to have rays in them drawing my soul to do her bidding. 
‘ I’ve saved a life or two in my time — that’s a sailor’s work,’ I 
said to her ; ‘ and if there’s any life aboard the Venture dear to 

you ’ ‘ There is !’ she cried. ‘ Well, I’ll pilot her as far as 

Falmouth, and look after your friend, miss, if you’ll tell me his 
name.’ ‘ And I hope it isn’t the name of that handsome drunken 
matoj’ I thought to myself. ‘ It is a lady,’ she said, and her 
name is Carbonellis.’ I felt my heart give a jump as I said, 

‘ Carbonellis of Langarth f ‘ The same,’ she answered. ‘ Then 
if the Captain will take me. I’ll be on that ship’s books to-mor- 
row. I know the young lady now ; I’m a Langarth man — my 
name is Daniel Pascoe.’ ‘Thank God!’ she said quite low. 
‘Now I can tell Mr. Irrian she is safe.’ ‘Who did you say, 
miss ?’ I asked ; and I felt very curious like, for that was the 
name Trevel had on his lips when raving. But she only answer- 
ed he was a friend of hers — one who was sorry for Miss Carbon- 
ellis, and would spend all his substance to help her, because he 
knew of her grief. ‘I am but his agent,’ she said — ‘I am only 
doing his bidding ; but I do it from my heart.’ Well, miss, to 
make a long story short, she told me all that she and this friend 
of hers suspected and feared, and how they knew the ship was 
insured far above her value and that Mr. Vicat was nearly bank- 
rupt — there, I’m glad Miss Carrie has moved away ! — and per- 
haps desperate enough for any deed, and how it was your money 
that was spent on this craft, and you were to sail in her, with 
his son — as he said — in the hope of saving his life, for he was 
sickly and dying. Then in telling this the young lady grew hot 
and angry, and declared your mind, weakened by grief, had been 
worked up in ways she could not describe, and she and Mr. 
Irrian w^ere resolved to save you. I wanted much to ask who 
this gentleman was and why he had you in his thoughts ; but 
she had a way with her which held me back from questions. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


305 


Then we planned together what to do, and we hit at last upon a 
plan that I mean to carry out. No, I can’t tell it to you, miss 
— time must do that. Now it was odd that in all my talk with 
Miss Mary Mr. Olver’s name was never mentioned. You Fee, 
miss, it never came into my mind that all your letters had been 
stolen or lost, and you believed him dead. Having never heard 
the story of that inquest, I couldn’t think such a thing. I took 
it for granted like you knew he was in India, and so said noth- 
ing about it. But I thought of him all the more, and was de- 
termined no harm should befall his sweetheart if my poor hand« 
could save her from it. So here I am, miss ; and when that 
young lady and I parted we shook hands like friends. And — 
oh, yes ; she did say then one word about Mr. Olver ! As she 
was wringing my hand hard, she said, ‘ I don’t forget who tried 
so bravely to save my father’s life — I don’t forget what happened 
on board the Alert / and then I fancied she grew very pale, and 
her eyes shrank away from mine to hide the pain she wouldn’t 
speak.” 

This was Daniel’s story, and Estrild pondered it, wondering 
much why Mr. Irrian should feel an interest in her fate so deep 
that he should interfere to protect her life. It could not be be- 
cause of that sad time of sickness at Salisbury, when Mary came 
and soothed her and himself back to health by her wonder-work- 
ing music. Some slight sympathy he might feel, knowing her 
story, but surely such sympathy in a stranger would soon pass 
away unless some other link bound her to his memory ! Could 
it be through the crime of the man Trevel that Mr. Irrian had 
became her defender ? It seemed impossible, and yet possible, 
because Mary Armstrong was his friend, and the blood of the 
stained deck of the Alert haunted them both, and Trevel had 
cried out upon his name even in the throes of death. But 
Estrild shrank from dwelling on this theme ; it touched too much 
upon the old mystery which had blighted her life. 

Captain Sinclair knew nothing of steamships, and, though his 
furtive watchful eyes peered at all things as though he saw a 
foe in every shadow, yet he dared not interfere with the working 
of the ship. This was left to Daniel as pilot, while the mate 
was the real commander. On these two men Mrs. Sinclair’s 
light eyes of fire often rested questioningly, as if balancing in 
her mind whether to trust the young man or the elder. Secretly 
T 




306 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


she was a pitiful coward for herself, and she loved her life dearly. 
They had been three days at sea when she sounded Daniel. 

“ Well, pilot, we can’t put in at Portsmouth — so my husband 
says.” 

As the Cap’en pleases, ma’am,” said Daniel, leaning on the 
binnacle. “ Then I’ll alter her course a bit. To run for Pah 
mouth would suit me better.” 

“ Yes ? ” said the woman, thrusting her light hair back from 
her face, for the wind was blowing her lint locks across her eyes. 
“Would you mind a longer cruise supposing Falmouth don’t 
suit us either ? ” 

“ How far,” said Daniel, “ and what pay? ” 

The woman laughed, and looked him in the face curiously. 

“ We have an heiress on board,” she said. “She ought to 
pay well for safety, unless some one else pays-better,” Then she 
laughed again, and flung her flying locks back with her strong 
hand impatiently. “ See here — I am pay master, and I’ll pay 
you handsomely. I have no fancy to cross the Bay of Biscay 
without you. My husband is but a land-lubber, if truth’s told, 
and the mate, though a good sailor ” 

“ Doesn’t always carry ballast,” interjected Daniel. 

“ That’s so,” returned the woman. “ Sober, he can sail the 
ship ; drunk, he might wreck her when — he wasn’t wanted to ; ” 
and again the glance of Are from her eyes swept over Daniel’s 
face, and she laughed that light laugh of hers which was as sug- 
gestive of all evil things as the rattle of the rattlesnake beneath 
brown leaves. 

Daniel did not answer till he had given an order to the man 
at the wheel ; then he said carelessly — 

“ Make it worth my while, and I’ll put the ship in any port 
you like, or no port if that suits you better.” 

What a laugh it was that answered him ! And now she let 
her elfin locks fly over her face, and peered at him from between 
their snaky lengths. 

“ There’s no doubt I can make it worth your while — well worth 
it. Our long boat is a good one, extra strong. What do you 
think about her standing a rough sea ? ” 

“ She’d stand any sea in reason,” said Daniel. “ And there 
are seas,” he added, looking at her quietly, “ that are mostly 
reasonable — not given to storms like the Atlantic, which is a sea 
I’d sooner be on in a ship than a boat.” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


3C7 


She stood silent a moment, as if thinking over her words. 

“ That would make it a pretty long cruise,” she said at 
length. 

“ I reckon it would, V)ut in such company it couldn’t but be 
pleasant, leave alone its being safe.” 

Daniel made his compliment in rather an elephantine way ; but 
it pleased her, for her vanity was her weak point. 

“ Well, I like to be safe,” she answered, with her little point- 
ed laugh ; “ but I don’t know where the pleasant company is. 
You are fond of talking to that idiot Hyde ? ” 

Carrie, from the moment of her stepping on board, had put on 
a dense and stupid aspect, and Mrs. Sinclair, not considering that 
it takes a wise person to play the fool, had been completely and 
satisfactorily deceived by it. She did not wish to have a sharp 
woman as stewardess. 

“ Well, one can’t always be talking to you,” said Daniel ; “ the 
Cap’en has got a jealous eye in his head.” 

“And always for the wrong man,” laughed the Captain's 
wife. 

Then she bit her lip slightly, as if vexed with herself ; and 
Daniel made a mental note of the action. 

“ You seem to like a talk with the heiress now and then,” she 
said tentatively ; and, narrowing her eyes to mere lines of fire, 
she fixed a sharp look at him. 

“ She’s uncommon fond of sea-yarns,’' said Daniel ; “ and an 
old shell-back like me can spin ’em out to any length. And, you 
see, we sailors has a sort o’ pride in storms and wrecks we've 
pulled through ; we like to tell of 'em.” 

“ Ah, you’re a bit vain, I suppose ! ” said Mrs. Sinclair. “ But, 
mind you, the heiress’s money is all tied up and given away ; she 
can’t finger a penny beyond what she’ve got with her ; and that 
isn’t much.” 

With this piece of warning information, and with fingers just 
touching her lip for silence, the Captain’s wife closed the conver- 
sation. 

“Now that’s a woman who thinks every man a scoundrel, 
ready to sell his soul for money,” said Daniel to himself, as he 
looked after her lithe figure. “ To keep up that thought in her 
will be the hardest part I have to play,” 


308 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


CHAPTER XLII. 

“ That idiot Hyde is in hysterics ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Sinclair^ 
entering Estrild’s cabin abruptly. “ I wish you would come to 
her and try to quiet her. My husband hates a screaming wo- 
man ; it reminds him of his first wife.^^ 

Estrild found Carrie kneeling on the floor of the saloon, beat- 
ing her hands together in alternate shrieks of laughter and ter- 
ror. 

‘‘ Oh, I shall die of it — I shall die of it ! she kept crying out. 
“ And I always said I wasn^t romantic. I hate romantic things. 
I ain’t fit to be a heroine. — not a bit ! And 1 won’t be turned 
into a heroine ! ” 

Here came another shriek of laughter, which rang out piercing- 
(y, then ceased, only to begin agaia 

“ Did you ever see such a fool ? ” asked the Captain’s wife. 

“ I think you had better leave her alone with me,” said Es- 
Crild. “ 1 believe I can quiet her.” 

“ Oh, I am quite willing to leave her to you ! Only do qui t 
her quickly. Screams from a woman have such an effect upon 
the Captain ; they turn his brain nearly, and make him furious. 

She walked away with a curl of contempt on her lip ; and, as 
soon as she was gone, Carrie threw her arms round Estrild and 
burst into sobs. These were better than laughter ; and she grad- 
ually grew calm enough to speak. 

“ Now tell me what has happened. What has frightened 
you ? ” asked Estrild. 

This question brought on another threat of frantic laughter ; 
but Carrie checked it bravely. 

“ My dear,” she said, with little bursts, ‘Ht was Tom.” 

“ Tom ? My dear Carrie, you are dreaming 1 ” 

“No, no ; I am in my senses. To think of anything so roman- 
tic happening to a plain girl like me I Oh, it’s too ridiculous 1 
Tom making himself a stowaway, and getting as black as a nig- 
ger with dirt, and as lean as a skeleton with starvation, just to* 
be in the same boat with me, and drown with me, if I am to be 
drowned ! Oh, dear ! I am not worth his thumb-nail, much 
less his whole body, which is nearly turned into a bag of bones 
now for my sake. What shall I do ? What with laughing at it 
and crying at it I am nearly dead.” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


309 


We must tell Daniel of it,” said Estrild, “ and ask his ad- 
vice. ” 

“Yes, yes ; but Tom must have victuals. He has been starv- 
ing on a few biscuits ever since he hid away, a weeek ago. I was 
down below in the store-room when he came to me and nearly 
scared me to death with the first sound of his voice. But I was 
talking to him quietly enough, and filling his pockets with bis- 
cuits, when we heard her step coming. He had just time to es- 
cape ; and then I screamed ‘ Rats ! ’ with all my might, and rush- 
ed up here, she following me angry as a fiend. And — and, to 
own the truth, when I once began to scream, I couldn^t stop. 
You know I am not romantic ; and I canT behave a bit like a 
heroine. And Tom appearing to me suddenly, like the ghost in 
a play, had upset my poor wits.” 

“ You must keep your senses clear now, Carrie, for Tom’s 
sake.” 

“ Well, so I will ; ” and, wiping her tears, Carrie, with a burst 
or two of laughter, subsided into quietude. 

On being told of Tom’s presence, Daniel’s face brightened. 

“ That’s another good man and true to add to the two I brought 
with me and the one I have gained over since. We shall do now. 
And, if I am laid low with fever, I shall feel there is some one 
to take my place.” 

“ Oh, Daniel, there is no one can take your place ! ” — and 
tears sprang to Estrild’s eyes as she spoke. The thought that 
Daniel might be struck down by illness appalled her. 

Down the breezy choppy seas of the Channel and across the 
Bay of Biscay Daniel piloted the ship, and on into warmer 
smoother waters, where the heat touched his veins with return- 
ing fever, and he had to lie down in weakness, and give up his 
place to the mate. 

This man was young and handsome ; and, but for his propen- 
sity to drink, he would have been a smart officer. Drink had 
ruined him and lowered him into a reckless dare-devil, eager for 
any excitement that drowned memory. He was of good birth, 
and had been placed in the East-India Service when a lad, but 
had lost his ship and his commission through drunkenness. 
Disgraced, and at length discarded by his family, whom he had 
wearied and impoverished, borrowing of one and forging the 
name of the other, he sank at last — a lost man — into the den of 
outcasts over whom Mrs. Sinclair reigned as queen. 


310 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


He was ripe and ready for the evil she proposed when Mr. 
Yicat ofiered to make her husband captain of the Venture, 
Without the aid of a smart officer capable of navigating the ship, 
she knew he could not accept the post offered to him ; so she 
spared no pains to induce this young fellow to follow her for- 
tunes. 

At the inquest on the man found in the Thames (whom Mr. 
Vicat had declared to be Harold Giver), Estrild’s guardian had 
been brought into contact in his secret inquiries with her and 
the creatures she hid from justice ; and he bore them in his mind 
as people who could be useful to him if needful. Thus, when his 
schemes were matured, he found ready to his hand the instru- 
ments by which to work tl|,em. 

Until Daniel’s illness kept him in his hammock, Estrild scarce- 
ly spoke to the young mate ; but now, when she came on deck, 
she felt obliged to address a few words to him at times, lest 
the difference between her demeanour to him and to Daniel 
should be noticeable. He quickly took advantage of this to pay 
hes some unw^elcome attentions, which she might scarcely have 
heeded but for the ire and hatred against her which they roused 
in the Captain’s wife. 

The woman began now to persecute her, to limit her walks on 
deck, to lock the door of the saloon to prevent her egress, and to 
force her into the dreariness of solitude by detaining Carrie at 
her own side. But both girls thought it wise to ignore many of 
her slights and insults, lest they should injure their defenders 
and hurry onward some catastrophe for which they were not 
prepared. 

It was while things were in this strained state that the Ven- 
ture touched at Madeira ; and Estrild, gazing as the prisoner 
from her cabin window, saw for a single instant Harold’s face. 
She uttered no cry, she held in her very breath lest it should 
betray her joy and wonder and hope, and yet Mrs. Sinclair’s fears 
and suspicions were sharply aroused. For, though no whisper 
had fallen from Estrild’s lips, yet her whole aspect was changed ; 
for love transforms and glorifies, and her face shone with the 
radiance his passing touch had left. So Mrs Sinclair, after one 
glance thrown, upon the sea, drew the curtain across the wdndow, 
and seated herself so near it that Estrild could not reach it again 
without thrusting her aside. Retaining her self-possession and 
calmness, instead of the hot turmoil of her heart, she remained so 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


311 


passive that the woman^s suspicions were gradually dulled, and 
at most her only fear was that Estrild had formed a resolve to 
appeal to the coming stranger for help, It was impossible for 
her to guess who the stranger was ; nor in her passing glance did 
she recognize in his bronzed visage the face of a man who had 
bribed her to let Trevel depart. In her life she was too used to 
scenes of violence to bear this one vividly in her memory. It 
w as one fight among many — that was all. 

Estrild soon recognized the impossibility of gaining speech 
with Harold ; and the hope of rescue by his hands died within 
her even as it rose. 

There is no prison so secure as a ship ; it has double walls, and 
its outer one — the sea — is stronger than a breastwork of iron. 

No soul was allowed to go on shore, no boat was unslung, and 
a strict w'atch was kept on all while the Venture stood off the 
fair isle of Madeira. Only the fruit-seller came , on board, and 
Estrild, by a rare chance escaping for a moment from her gaol- 
ers, sent her letter to Harold through his hand. In seeing him, 
in remembering how they had last parted, the scene of Tristram’s 
death rose up vividly before her, and the old dread seized upon 
her with a cold dutch Impelled, she knew not why, by a shiver- 
ing terror of death, she implored him to meet her at Langarth ; 
for some strange whisper in her soul seemed to tell her that only 
through him could her life be saved. That she would go to Lan- 
garth she felt certain, for she had firm faith in Daniel ; and she 
knew that through his strong hand a brave spirit she would be 
rescued from the peril now besetting her. 

The ship lay becalmed in a hot sea ; not a breath of wind 
touched her listless sails, not a drop of rain fell ; yet an unwhole- 
some dampness was on all things, a dense mist stood all around 
^ — impenetrable, warm as a steaming yapour, and deadly as the 
miasma of a marsh in which snakes love to die. 

The Captain’s wife lay on the deck, fainting with the heat,and 
angry as a wounded viper, for the handsome mate was standing 
by Estrild’s side, talking to her eagerly. The woman listened, 
and overheard a word or two that fell into her ear like poison. 

“You would like to sail away from this close heat ? Well, 
«ay the word I have asked you for, and when tlie wind comes I 
will take this ship where you please.” 

Estrild did not answer ; she turned her face away from the 


312 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


man’s fierce amorous gaze, and started aside when she felt the 
sudden grasp of Mrs. Sinclair’s strong hand on her arm. 

“ Go below ! ” she cried furiously. “ I will not have you here 
on deck, interrupting an officer of this ship in his duties ! 

“ Do not touch me ! ” Estrild answered, feeling she had grown 
white to the lips and could say no more. 

“ Unhand the yonng lady ! ” said the mate in a voice of cool 
command, with eyes fixed on her with an expression that showed 
he knew his power. 

She obeyed him instantly, with a laugh ghastly to hear. 

“ She’s too good to be touched, I suppose ? ” she said viciously. 

“Yes certainly — by you.^’ 

“ Look here, Mr. Percy,” said the woman, containing her rage 
no longer — “ you are mate of the Yenture, but my husband is the 
Captain ; and you will take the ship where he orders you,” 

“ Perhaps he’ll be good enough to work the ship also,” rejoin- 
ed the handsome Mr. Percy insolently — scamps always choose an 
alias that is a good name. “ I expect a squall to break over us 
before sunset ; maybe you’ll tell Captain Sinclair to leave his bot- 
tle and come on deck and give orders to prepare for it. I am 
going below.” 

He followed Estrild to the saloon, and stood a moment irreso- 
lute, gnawing his fingers, his face dark with the passions raging 
within hiin. Then he came opposite to her, and, resting his 
hands on the table by which she sat, he strove to look into her 
eyes. 

“ You don’t mind what that woman says, I hope ? You know 
I don’t care for her — you know I love you ; she has no right even 
to intrude into your presence. Say you know I love you.’' 

Estrild looked up, white and resolute, too angry to speak ; but 
he was desperate, and this made him the stronger of the two. 

“ You may despise me if you will, but your life is in my 
hands,” he said, clenching his fingers involuntarily. “That vil 
lain Sinclair has engaged to scuttle this ship ; he waits only to be 
near enough the Cape to do this with safety to himself and his 
wife, and the ruffian crew they have hired. They intend to get 
safe off in the cutter and long-boat ; the seaman whom they 
have taken as pilot, though he may be your friend, cannot pre- 
vent this vile plot from being carried out to its last deadly letter. 
It is I alone who can save you. Give me your hand, and I will 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


313 


run this ship into a safe port, where we can make a new home 
and be happy ; and I will give these miscreants up to justice.^' 

“ Let me pass, Mr. Percy ! said Estrild, striving to get by 
him to reach her own cabin ; but he pushed the table closer to 
the couch on which she sat and prevented her egress. 

“ So you do not consider me worthy of an answer?” he ex- 
claimed, with intense bitterness. “ You will tind my words are 
true, and you will cling to me then for safety.” 

“Never !” Estrild cried passionately. 

“Never?” he repeated. “But I say you will^ — I am resolved 
you shall ! Death, mind you, is a terrible thing, and you will 
shrink from it. Better be my wife than die.” 

“ I should think death preferable,” Estrild said, with pale lips, 
trying again to pass him. 

He stopped her with both arms outspread, his face dark with 
rage. 

“ Is that your last word ?” he asked, in a voice of concentrated 
passion. 

“ Yes. Let me go by, Mr. Percy, or I will call for help.” 

His arms dropped, he let her pass, hissing between his teeth — 

“You will suffer for this. Miss Carbonellis, and repent when 
too late.” 

She paid no heed to his words ; she closed the door of her 
cabin and locked it, and then fell upon her knees and prayed 
with tears. 

It seemed hours ere Carrie came with a word of comfort, and 
a message from Daniel bidding her be of good heart, the fever 
had run its course and was leaving him. 

“Then there’s Tom,” Carrie said — “a fellow strong as iron — 
he’ll fight for us. Why are you tearful and frightened ?” 

Estrild told her something of what had passed, but not all, for 
Mr. Yicat was her father, and for her sake she did not like to 
repeat the words which implied that the Captain was under an 
engagement to him to wreck the Venture, 

“ Scuttle the ship ?” said Carrie. “ Then now I understand 
why Tom is so busy whittling wood — making things that look 
like pegs. Poor fellow, it is well for him that I have got the 
care of the stores ! I keep him well supplied.” 

“ But how can you get down to see him, Carrie?” 

“ Oh, well enough ! I can creep about like a cat now, and the 
man Daniel brought on board, whom they call ‘ Dick the gunner,’ 


314 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


because he shuts one eye when he is looking at you, carries down 
candles and stores and all sorts of things to the hold. Daniel 
told me to trust hini.^^ 

As these two whispered thus together, a sound rose in the air 
unlike any other sound on earth. It was a mighty roar, louder 
than mingled thunders, stronger than the seas which it lifted 
and tore and scattered as it passed. On it rolled, like an infer- 
nal drum-beat calling fiends to battle ; and swifter than light- 
ning it swooped down upon the ship with sudden blow, beneath 
which she reeled from stern to prow, staggering like a drunkard 
in his cups.. The top-mast fell crashing into the boiling sea 
below, and ropes cracked like threads, as, reeling over beneath 
the strain, the ship rose again ; and the wrecked mast was car- 
away — a mere whisp of straw upon the raging waves. 

In the appalling roar of the hurrican now fiercely swurling 
around them all other sounds were swallowed up, or touched the 
ear vaguely, as making some small part of its own huge and 
horrible outcry. Yet, rising amid the storm, Estrild heard the 
voice of Daniel shouting like a giant to the wind ; and feet 
hurried to and fro, and hands were swift to obey his orders ; and 
the good ship righted herself, and lifted her prow gallantly above 
the mighty waves that rushed upon her with white death upon 
their crests. 

“ We are saved — Daniel is on deck 1 Estrild whispered to the 
weeping terror-stricken Carrie, who was clinging to her with a 
clutch of agony. 

“No, no ; we are going to die!*' cried Carrie hysterically. 
“ Let me go ; Til die with Topi — if I must die — like a heroine ; 
I’ll drown with his arms around me ! ’* 

“ Carrie, is this a .time to talk foolishly ? Hark — some one is 
trying the door ! 

Estrild opened it, and confronted the Captain^s wife ; she was 
pale to ghastliness, but her eyes flamed and her long lint locks 
hung in ragged confusion on her shoulders. 

“ The pilot has battened us down,’’ she said in a hollow voice ; 
“ we shall drown like rats in a hole ! You are good girls — pray 
for me ! We are wrecked — we are sinking ! Oh, pray — pray, 
both of you — down on your knees and pray ! ” 

She held on to Carrie with both hands, quivering and trem-. 
bling in an agony of fear ; while every shout of the sailors, 
every rush of sea across the deck, every fierce howl of the tem^ 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


315 


pest, elicited a fresh shriek from her lips, a renewed trembling 
and writhing of her frame. 

I Amazed at this display of cowardice in a woman apparently 
so strong, Estrild bent over her with soothing calming words, 
and would have lifted her from the floor where she lay, but she 
cried out — 

“No ; don’t touch me ! It’s true what he said — too true— I 
j have no right to be near you ; I ought never to have come inside 
the ship. Oh, let me escape — only let me escape death this 
time, and I’ll repent — I’ll confess everything ! ’’ 

“ Will you ? ” said her husband, appearing suddenly at the 
door. “ You’ll have to reckon with me first. It’s your doing, 
woman, that I am here with this traitor Percy, who is playing 
false to us both. Come and look at the gallant scamp, and see 
what he is worth. For my part, if we are going to die, I am 
glad to have it over, and finish life and all its courses.” 

His shrinking furtive eyes seemed to [have caught courage 
from the danger which threatened him ; his pinched blanched 
face wore a new aspect. He dragged his wife away, and, ere he 
closed the cabin door, Estrild caught a glimpse of the mate 
seated by the table where she had left him, a brandy-bottle be- 
fore him, his senses lost, his head resting on his outspread arms 
— looking what he was, a desperate and ruined ruffian. So at 
this moment all command of the ship, all responsibility, devolved 
on Daniel. But he worked with an unwilling and vile crew, the 
sole men he could rely on being only four — two seamen he had 
brought with him, “ Dick the gunner,” who was the carpenter, 
and Tom, who, although no sailor, could and did work at the 
pumps like a man. At such a time of terror his advent was un- 
noticed save by his friends. 

The darkness was intense, and, driven by the wind, the ship 
ploughed through it blindly, plunging onwards like a creature 
fighting its way through a thousand deaths. Morning broke on 
a leaden and gloomy sea, on faces worn and anxious, haggard 
with the night’s toil, on a ship — a partial wreck — that seemed to 
lie at the mercy of the waves, but also on a little ridge of cloud 
on the horizon which was land. 

On this dim shore Mrs. Sinclair fixed her eyes in hope ; if the 
wind abated, the boats could reach it safely. 


316 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


nilAPTER XLIII. 

Harold was in London, treading its pavements like a stran* 
ger. Anovfter man had his chambers ; his papers, huddled into 
a box, had been sent to his cousin, who was now a member of 
Parliament, and in town. 

Harold betook himself to his house, and was received with 
amazement, mingled with a warm welcome and a peal of laugh- 
ter. 

‘‘ Faith, my dear fellow, I buried you nately and respectably 
at my own expense,^^ said The Macarthy, grasping his hand ; 
“ but all the same I didn’t believe it was yourself, as I felt sure 
you’d make a more dacent corpse than the scamp who has mean- 
ly got your honourable name put upon his tombstone. Your 
papers, dear boy ? They are all intact, and I vvish you joy of 
em ; and I’m glad they don’t belong to me if there’s bills amongst 
♦em. ” 

There is no need to tell what Harold felt on reading Estrild’s 
letter of recall. It was no wonder she believed him dead when 
she received no answer to such a message as this. He heard all 
the history of his supposed death from his cousin, and could in a 
great measure now divine the advantage taken of it by Mr. 
Vicat to influence Estiild when grief had broken her spirit. In 
a fierce mood he went to that gentleman’s house, to find it occu- 
pied by a new tenant ; but a few inquiries in the neighbourhood 
led to his discovering his present abode. It was a small house in 
a dismal suburb, and he was shown into a dingy parlor, where a 
man paralysed and uncertain of speech sat in a ragged arm-chair 
by the window. In this man, so terribly changed and dreadful 
to the sight, he did not at first recognise Mr. Yicat. It was 
when Mrs. Vicat entered that the truth broke upon him. 

“Oh, Mr. Olver, is it you ?” she cried, with a burst of tears 
which she wiped away hastily. “I knew you were living — j 
heard it a little while ago from Mary Armstrong. She has been 
a ministering angel to me. But for ner, we should be beggars 
and outcasts. You see my husbaud is a wreck ; his mind gave 
way for a time when he found his daughter was on board the 
Venture. Then creditors fell upon him, he was declared bank- 
rupt, and Miss Glendorgal, alarmed at not hearing from Estrild, 
came to London with the family soKci^or, and all the Langarth 
estate was taken out of Mr. Yicat’s Oh, Mr. Olver, he 



PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 317 ' - 


had spent thousands of Estrild’s money, he had done many evil 
things, but the worst wickedness of all was trying to marry her 
to his poor crippled son ! 

“ Did he dare form such a scheme ? cried Harold, turning to 
the impotent man with fury in his eyes. 

“ Ah, and I should have carried it out too,^’ said Mr. Yicat, in 
thick imperfect utterance, “if Gilbert had only have lived a day 
or two longer ! A better match for her th"*’! you, sir ; and she 
was a weak girl, easily worked on througl he foolish pity and 
her belief in that wizard son of mine. Bui i.e could do strange 
things ; and I wish — I wish — he could have helped me when — 

when ** Here memory failed, and with the old vacant look 

he gazed from the window again. 

It was a painful spectacle, and in pity Harold turned from it, 
feeling more of horror than of anger as Mrs. Vicat gave him the 
history of the last two years, and he could see dimly what a web 
had been woven around Estrild’s life, and how dreadful was 
the plot by which Mr. Yicat had hoped to possess himself of her 
wealth. 

“ So she made a settlement in that wretched man’s favour 1 ” 
Harold said, with a gesture of disgust and indignation. 

“ I fear so,” Mrs. Yicat answered. 

“ Oh, it’s safe — quite safe 1 ” broke in Mr. Yicat with a dread- 
ful chuckle. “ And, when the Venture goes down at sea, which 
she is bound to do, I shall be a rich man. There’s the heavy 
insurance too to come in. Then we’ll have a grand wedding, my 
dear — we’ll marry Carrie in proper style. That’s my daughter, 
sir — my favorite daughter. She is gone to see a friend ; she’ll be 
home soon. I am sitting at the window watching for her — just 
at this angle I can look all up the street. I’ll tell you when she 
is coming ; you’ll like her — every one likes her.” He looked out 
eagerly, and took no more notice of Harold ; he had forgotten 
who he was. 

“ He was not so bad as this at first,” said Mrs. Yicat — “ he 
knew once that Carrie was on board the Venture ; but since the 
blow came that paralysed him he has always fancied she is com- 
ing home in an hour or two. He watches for her like that all 
day and every day.” 

“ I am sorry for you indeed,” said Harold ; “ but you know 
perhaps that I saw the Venture at Madeira safe and sound ? ” 

A gleam of joy sprang into Mrs. Yicat’s patient eyes ; she 









■ 




318 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


went over to her husband and laid her hand on his vacant 
forehead. 

“ My dear, here is good news for you — Mr. Olver saw the Yen- 
lure at Madeira — Estrild and Carrie are safe.*’ 

“Ah, at Madeira ! Then it is all right — nothing was to be 
done till they neared the Cape. Yes, we shall hear news — great 
news soon. They can’t keep the Largarth money from me then. 
My dear, isn’t Carrie a little long this evening in coming back ? ” 

Mrs. Vicat took her hand away from his forehead, and laid a 
kiss on it instead from her trembling lips. 

“ Yes, Mary is keeping her rather late ; but she will be here 
soon,’' she said ; then, beckoning to Harold, she took a packet of 
letters from her husband’s desk and gave them to him. Three 
of these were his own, one from the Cape and two from India — 
the letters which, as he had fancied, Estrild had left unanswered 
in her resolve to make their parting final. Why were all un- 
opened ? Why Mr. Yicat had refrained from breaking their 
seals was a secret of his own heart. Perhaps he feared they 
they were from Harold, and he dreaded making his fear a cer- 
tainty — he preferred to believe him dead. 

Harold glanced at the letters with a rush of indignant pain 
that made his blood tingle, but he said nothing. This weak 
woman who was innocent was not a creature on whom to wreak 
his anger, and the criminal who had caused all this agony was 
punished by a stronger Hand than his. 

“ Miss Carbonellis was a prisoner on board the Yentxire^^ he 
said ; “yet she succeeded in sending me a letter to assure me of 
her safety and that she had a f fiend on board.” 

“Mary Armstrong’s doing,” interjected Mrs. Vicat clasping 
her hands in thankfulness. “She travelled hastily from Cum- 
berland to come to our help — not that I suspected my husband 

capable of ” She stopped, as if, unable to give utterance to 

her thoughts, fearing to inculpate and knowing she could not 
excuse him. 

“ From Cumberland T repeated Harold. “ Then Mrs. Arm- 
strong does not live in London now T 

“Mrs. Armstrong died a year ago, and since then Mary has 
lived with a distant relative, a very wealthy man, whose chari- 
ties are boundless. Mary is his agent in these, for his name is 
never mentioned, his face never seen by those he helps. I am 
indebted to him, through her, for our home and bread.” 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


819 


Her voice broke and her tears fell, and a moment or two pas- 
fied before Harold troubled her to speak again. 

“ I should like to see Miss Armstrong,” he said. “ Can you 
give me her address V 

“ Yes ; but it would be a long journey for you to go to her. 
6he is at Mr. Irrian’s, in Cumberland.” 

“ Mr. Irrian !” The name startled Harold into sudden pale 
ness. He had last heard it from Trevel’s lips. 

“The name of his place is Trame,” continued Mrs. Yicat. “ A 
queer name ; Mary says it means ‘ a dream.’ She keeps up the 
town-house still where her mother used to live. Perhaps you 
had better wait till she comes there.” 

“Ho ; I am impatient to see her — she can explain much that 
I will not ask you to tell me.” 

“You are very good,” said Mrs. Vicat, her words rising with 
a sob in her throat. “ I know you think I ought not to have 
allowed Estrild to be decoyed on board that ship ; but Mr. 
Vicat’s own son was going, and I could not — I dared not 
believe ” 

“ My dear,” broke in Mr. Yicat solemnly, “ you prayed for the 
Venture, You said, ‘ God prosper the good ship ! ’ — so she is 
safe. And, even if she sinks, Gilbert will raise her. He can do 
strange things — he’ll lift her with threads of light. I saw a 
battle in the air once ; you were in it, sir, and the room was full 
of smoke — it killed him. Carrie is long in coming.” He looked 
from the window again, and forgot that he had been talking. 

Harold hastened to say good-bye. 

“ And let me assure you,” he said, on parting with Mrs. 
Yicat, “ that I have a firm belief in the vessel’s safety. Estrild’s 
letter gives me the conviction that she felt no cause for fear ; 
and Daniel Pascoe is not the man to let her trust in him in 
vain.” 

Nevertheless, though he said this, his heart was full of a sick- 
ening fear as he went on to Lloyd’s and made enquiries there 
which led to nothing. The ship had touched at Madeira — they 
were aware of that — and had sailed for the Cape ; they knew no 
more. 

Full of heaviness and anxiety that could take no certain form, 
and therefore pained the more because it gave no chance of 
action, Harold felt that to see Mary Armstrong was the best 
and only course before him. This girl who had interfered on 


320 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Estrild’s behalf was a mystery to him. What was her motive ? 
Was it compunction for her father’s sin ? And was Cumberland 
guilty ? These questions, amid a throng of thoughts, haunted 
him as in a lumbering hackney-coach he drove to the office of the 
Northern Mail, and booked himself for an outside place to a 
certain town in Cumberland. 

Through the long slow journey — though fast then — which he 
began that night the same questions pressed upon his mind in- 
cessantly. His promise to^Mary Armstrong, which he had kept, 
his promise to Cumberland, not yet fulfilled, haunted him per- 
sistently. 

He was dead, poor young fellow — he was certainly dead. And 
yet, unless he was assured of this as a known fact, he was not 
bound to keep that rash promise. How could he go to a man and 
tell him that his only son was glad to die ? Perhaps before 
leaving London he ought to have inquired at the East India 
Office if news had been received of Cumberland’s death ; but — 
but he was not sorry he had left this undone. 

Through the night into the day, and through the day again in- 
to the night, the mail rolled along the white roads with rattle of 
wheels and blowing of horn, while glimpses of quiet country 
towns and solitary cottages among the lonely hills, and with 
hasty meals snatched at old-world inns, and cheery chat with 
old-world coachmen, but also with weariness and cramps, and 
broken sleep, and miseries untold — forgotten now, with all the 
pleasures of the old-world travelling, swept away by the breath 
of steam. 

When the little sleepy Northern town was reached at last, 
Harold found there was still a long drive before him, as Trame 
was nine miles away among lakes and hills. He took a few 
hours’ sleep, then hired a post-chase and started on his lonely 
drive. And, as he wound round about the hills, or in the val- 
leys entered into their shadows, the same indefinable fears and 
forebodings haunted him. They came upon him, an indis- 
tinguishable throng, and he could no more give them shape or 
form than he could bestow a body on the phantoms in the clouds 
that rolled around the crags and peaks above him. 

An old-fashioned stone house standing against storm and rain 
on a steep hill-side ; a winding road leading to it among sighing 
pines ; a lawn in front stretching down to a cliflT, beneath which 
there dashed a mountain torrent springing over rocks and boul- 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


321 


ders, till it leaped an overhanging ridge and fell in boiling foam 
into a pool beneath, from which there rose a shower of spray- 
touched with opal tints by the setting sun. A solitude so in- 
tense that it seemed a sin to break its silence by a footfall dwelt 
round about the great cold stone house, and a singular melan- 
choly grew upon the mind in gazing at its gray worn aspect. 

This was Trame, and Harold, as he stood before its closed por- 
tals, felt himself an intruder. ' 

He asked for Miss Armstrong, and was ushered into a long 
low room untouched by the setting sun, its gray dimness lighted 
only by a fire of logs on the hearth. By the glow of these he 
saw three figures. Two of them were seated — Mary and a 
white-haired gentleman — the third half turned towards him, and 
then flitted away into the darkness of some room beyond him. 

Harold checked his steps with a sudden paleness spreading 
over his face. The thought of a promise unfulfilled thrilled 
through his nerves ; he ought to have kept his word. 

“ Am I haunted, or is it a delusion of the firelight ? ** 

He gave his hand to Mary with the question in his mind. She 
looked up at him with grateful eyes, her, own hand-clasp close 
and warm. 

‘‘You have nobly kept your word to me,^’ she said. “ I have 
to thank you for a dear life. ” 

Harold felt bewildered — he could not answer her. 

“ This is Doctor Arnold. He knows Estrild ; he attended her 
during her illness at Salisbury.^’ 

“ It was a cruel time,’’ Harold said vaguely. “ I could not 
guess she was there. ” 

His eyes were still strained towards the inner room — it was 
full of darkness. He knew he was still pale ; he felt his heart 
beating loudly against his side. In another moment a low cry 
broke from his lips. A figure was coming forward from out of 
the darkness into the glow of the firelight. It was Cumberland 
— not pale, not gray with the shadow of death, as he had last seen 
him, but with hues of health on his handsome face and an air of 
joy all about him. 

“ Cumberland Harold exclaimed, in a voice which shook 
with a thousand mingled feelings ; and a deep flush flew over his 
paleness as he grasped the young man’s outstretched hand. 

“ I verily believe you took me for my own ghost,” said Cum- 
berland, with a touch of his old boyish laughter. 

U 


322 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ If I did, I was justified,” returned Harold — ‘‘for I left you 
at Calcutta on the borders of ghostland.” 

Cumberland's young face took a graver shade. 

“I am always there,” he answered. 

Mary rose and stood beside him. 

“We are in a haunted house here, Mr. Olver,” she said ; “and 
its inhabitants are too fond of ghosts.” 

“ We have Shakspere’s warrant that there are things in heaven 
and earth past our philosophy to comprehend,” said Doctor 
Arnold. 

“ It is past mine to understand how Cumberland got to Eng- 
land,” observed Harold, still full of amazement. 

“ In a ship — like yourself,” said Cumberland laughingly ; “but 
my ship was not delayed as yours was. We made a very quick 
passage.” 

“But you were so ill when I left you,” persisted Harold, “that 
it seems a miracle.” 

“ Yes, it was a miracle. I got better suddenly when quite 
given up, and was ordered home at once by the doctors. So in 
reality I sailed only ten days after you.” 

Harold gazed at him from head to foot, still amazed, incredu- 
lous, and wondering — the Cumberland he had left dying, and 
glad to die, was so unlike the man standing before him health- 
ful and happy. 

“You are still surprised to see me alive. Of course you be- 
lieved me dead, and you are come to fulfil your promise to my 
father.” 

“Your father?” questioned Harold. 

“ Yes ; I am Mr. Irrian’s son.” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

As the tempest subsided, Mrs. Sinclair’s repentance dwindled ; 
and, when the waves were stilled and the sun shone out, she was 
her cruel self again. But she did not forget her terror; it 
brought upon her a fevered restlessness and fierce resolve to 
hasten matters and reach land as quickly as she could. So she 
looked upon the low ridge of dusky cloud on the horizon with 
longing eyes, and wondered and wondered if that was the shore 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


323 


she wished for. No one could tell her but Daniel, and he kept 
his lips closed. It was hopeless to appeal to the mate ; he had 
taken to a fierce drinking bout, and through all the hours of the 
storm he passed only from one stage of madness to another. But 
for Daniel the ship would have been lost — she knew that ; but 
she knew also he was Estrild’s friend, and this poisoned her grati- 
tude. 

Her hatred of Estrild had grown intense, for any rough word 
the mate gave her she laid to her charge; his rage of drunken- 
ness was her doing ; the imprecations and insults flung at her- 
self all sprung from the man’s sudden love for this white-faced girl. 
As the tire of her jealousy flamed and raged within her, it burnt 
up the last remnant of pity and softness in her soul, and she 
looked forward to Estrild’s death with the keen desire of a wolf 
just fastening on his prey. 

It was the second day after the hurricane when Estrild came 
on deck, and, though knowing herself to be watched, she went 
straight to Daniel and grasped his hand, and thanked him fer- 
vently for the brave skill and seamanship that had saved their 
lives. 

“ I hope the weather will keep fair,” said Daniel, for we’ve 
sprung a leak, and 1 won’t promise to pull the ship through an- 
other such a storm.” 

Mrs. Sinclair drew a little nearer and listened. 

“ Is there no finding the leak and repairing it, Daniel ? ” 

“ The carpenter is down below in that hope now, miss ; and, if 
he fails ” 

Yes ? ” Estrild said eagerly. 

“ Then we must run for the nearest port and keep all hands at 
the pumps. But, you see, miss the men are worn out — and some 
of them mutinous too,” he added, in a lower voice. 

“ And what is the nearest port ? What land is that over there, 
if it is land ? ” said Estrild breathlessly. 

That is the coast of Africa,” said Daniel, answering only her 
last question. 

Mrs. Sinclair had heard every word ; a gleam of joy shot into 
her cruel eyes, her heart swelled, yet felt buoyant. For her, in 
her ignorance, the coast of Africa meant the Cape — the land of 
her dreams — and surely the boats could reach it in a few hours ! 
She ventured to ask the question— 


324 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ Well, Mr. Pascoe, if things come to the worst and the leak 
increases, I suppose we could take to the boats ? ” 

“ I reckon we should have to do it.” 

“ And would it take us long to reach that land over there 

“ With a fair- wind, such as we have now, from six to eight 
hours,” said Daniel. 

Mrs. Sinclair walked away with a cruel smile upon her lips — 
she had heard all she wanted to know. 

That night, while Daniel, exhausted by work and wakefulness, 
gave himself a few hours’ rest, the boat was provisioned and got 
into readiness for a sudden launching. The harassed and 
mutinous crew, glad to leave a ship which kept them constantly 
at the pumps, glad of the prospect of land and money, which 
were lavishly promised them, worked with a will and with all 
the stealthy silence the evil deed required. 

****** 

It was four in the mornmg ; a faint light in the east was rising 
above the dusky line which touched the sea like a cloud, but to- 
wards which all eyes were turned as the land of their hope. One 
boat was lowered safely, the- other waited. If Daniel had heard 
what was going on, he made no sign ; he seemed to sleep the 
profound slumber of an over-wearied man. 

All is ready,” whispered Mrs. Sinclair to the mate. 

“ Then get into the boat,” he answered. 

Not without you,” she said. 

“ Very well ; then I’ll fetch the girl.” 

“ What girl \ ” slie asked, in a fierce whisper. 

“ Not Hyde,” he said, with a short laugh. 

“You shall not save the other!” said Mrs. Sinclair, grasping 
him with a hand like a vice. “ Of what use is all we have done if 
she lives? We are paid well — I’ll keep my word with the man 
who paid me.” 

“ And I’ll keep mine,” returned the other, wrenching himself 
from her clutch. “ I swore that girl should cling to me for help, 
and she shall ; she shall beg her life of me yet, and have it on 
my terms ! ” He burst away from her and rushed down the 
companion-ladder, stumbling in the darkness as he went. 

“ Let him go ! ” said the miserable Sinclair, holding back his 
wife from following the mate. “We don’t want that drunkard 
with us. I’ll have the boat lowered at once, and leave him in 
the ship.” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


325 


Mrs. Sinclair glared at him like a tigress. 

“ rd leave you, and a thousand such as you, to drown before 
I would leave him ! ” she said. 

“Take care what you say,” he answered. “There’s no time 
for quarrelling. The ship is scuttled, as you know, and she is 
sinking.’^ 

“ Go and fetch Percy then,” she said, pushing him from her 
as if to hurry him on the errand. “ I’ll ^^t move till he 
comes.” 

“ And ril not move an inch to save the scoundrel’s carcass 
from a dog’s death ! ” he hissed between his teeth. “ I never in- 
tend to let my wife’s lover land with her at the cape,” His eyes, 
usually so shrinking, were full of a wild fury, his white pinched 
face had lost its scared look. 

His wife gazed at him for a moment in surprise, and then 
burst into a hard laugh. 

“ You play the man too late. Percy comes with me, whether 
you like his company or no. Stand out of my way ; I’ll fetch 
him myself ! ” 

There was no need, for the mate at that moment reeled on 
deck. He was very white, and there was a stunned look about 
him as of a man who had received a blow ; his Ups were livid 
and shaking. 

“Well, where is she? ’’asked Mrs. Sinclair mockingly. 

“ She has answ’ered me as if I were a dog ; and Hyde’s bully 
— the stowaway — struck me down as I tried to reach her cabin 
door. But I called out ; I made her understand the state of 
things, and offered her her life. She refused it ; and now she 
may drown. I’ll not lift hand or voice to save her. That man 
threatened me with a pistol ; I have one too, and I would have 
shot him if I hadn’t thought drowning a better death for 
him.” 

He spoke with all the sulky fury of a beaten ruffian. The 
marks of Tom’s fists were on his face — he put up his hand and 
felt the bruise — a white froth stood upon his lips. 

There is a love which turns to hate ; it was the sort of love 
this man had felt for Estrild, and hate was boiling within him 
how, together with a thirst for vengeance. 

“They laughed,” he said bitterly, “when their watch-dog 
struck me down ; but it is we who have the laughing side. Come 


326 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


on, old girl — you are the woman for me after all — and we’ll lead 
a jolly life in a new land ! ” 

He put his arms around the woman, forgetting that her hus- 
band was by her side, forgetting all things in his brutal anger, 
the fumes of drink too being still in his brain. He was wrenched 
aside and flung upon the deck in an instant, and Sinclair stood 
over him and spurned him with his foot as he lay. The one 
great passion of 4his man’s soul — jealousy — was working in him 
with a wrath that gave him the strength of a madman. He 
flung himself on the prostrate mate and held him by the 
throat. 

“ It is you who will drown ! ” he hissed in his face. “No boat 
shall, hold you and me together!” 

Choking with the grip of that nervous hand upon his windpipe, 
the mate could make no answer — he could but writhe and 
struggle for a breath or two of life which seemed fast ebb- 
ing. 

“ Let him go ! ” shrieked the woman. 

But her husband took no heed of her words — they flew past 
him, not touching his sense. He still knelt upon Percy, holding 
him down as a man might hold an infuriated dog. 

Mrs. Sinclair looked around for help ; there was none. The 
long-boat stood a furlong off*, some of the crew standing, eagerly 
beckoning to the others to follow. Two men were in the other 
boat, ready to be lowered ; two others were searching for some 
missing gear ; so these three were alone on the poop, the gray 
dawn scarcely making them visible to the others. 

Mrs. Sinclair knelt down and looked into her lover’s face — it 
was purple, and his lips were whitening with foam. At that 
moment something cold touched her hand ; it was a pistol which 
had fallen from the mate’s pocket in the struggle. She caught it 
up and shot her husband straight in the breast. 

He fell back, and the mate rose staggering to his feet. Half, 
fainting, dizzy, nearly senseless, he clung to his rescuer, dimly 
wondering what had happened. 

The men in the boat peered through the darkness at the group, 
but understood nothing. The two others, coming up from the 
lower deck, ran aft to them with fear on their faces. 

“Quick,” they cried — “there is no time to lose ! The water 
is rising fast ! What is this ? ” 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


327 


They looked down on the deathly- white face of the Captain. 
He did not utter a word. 

“ He has shot himself/^ said his wife. “We must leave him ; 
he is as good as a dead man.'' 

She moved away without another look, her arm round Percy, 
supporting his uncertain steps. 

In another instant Sinclair’s fainting eyes closed, and he saw 
no more. 

“ Let us stand off and see the old Venture go down,” said the re- 
covered mate, with grim satisfaction in his hard tone. “How 
many scamps are there on board that wouldn’t join us 1 

“ Eight, all told,” said a Malay, his white teeth shining 
through the dark line of his lips. 

“We may call ’em eleven,” said another man, “for the pilot is 
worth three ordinary seamen. I was afraid of his coming on 
deck every minute. It is a wonder he slept so long.” 

Mrs. Sinclair, who had been shivering visibly, laughed a little 
in a forced way. 

“ I took care he should sleep,” she said. 

The light was stronger now. The mate turned and looked her 
in the face ; she was still clinging to his arm. He shook off her 
hand rudely. 

“ You are a woman who frightens a man,” he said between his 
lips “ Was Sinclair dead when we left ? ” 

“I neither know nor care,” she answered. “He was killinsr 
• * • ^ 
you, and your life was worth a thousand such lives as his ! ” 

“They are crowding on more sail ! ” suddenly cried a voice. 
“ They have found out we are gone ! They mean to run us 
down !” 

“ Her hold is half full of water,” said another — “ she won’t 
answer her helm — she’ll go down in a minute — she’s scuttled in 
a dozen places, Dick said.” 

“ I hope that girl will come on deck,” murmured the mate. 
“Perhaps even now, if she dropped overboard ” 

“ Look at that chest,” whispered Mrs. Sinclair — “you know 
what it holds — all gold. I would have it in gold. I have earned 
it ; you will enjoy it. Don’t let me hear that girl’s name again. 
Eow away, lads — we’ll wait no longer ! ” 

They rowed a furlong or two, then paused on their oars and 
waited again. The light rose between them and the silent ship ; 


328 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


they looked to see her go down into the smooth sea ; their breath 
stood upon their lips, their hearts beat expectantly, they were 
ready to give a triumphant cheer ere they dipped their oars into 
the water once more. 

But no such sight touched their cruel eyes. They saw the ship 
stagger for a moment, as if unwilling to obey the bold hand that 
steered her ; then she turned slowly with prow to the north, and 
they saw Daniel standing at the wheel ; they heard the faint 
echo of a cheer, and the Venture sailed away, leaving their boat 
alone on the wdde sea. 

Consternation sat on every face, execra.tions passed from lip to 
lip*; Mrs. Sinclair grew ghastly pale, but she did not shriek or 
weep. 

“ Can we get on board again she asked ; her terror thrilled 
through her voice. 

She read her answer on the man^s desperate face. The stretch 
of sea between them and the ship was fast increasing to a wide 
dim gulf ; she was passing into the morning mist. A little while 
and her white sails would vanish amid its wreathing vapour ; a 
moment more and the veil covered her. She was as lost to 
them as though their wicked scheme had not failed and she and 
all on board had gone down to the death prepared for them. 

* * ♦ 

“ Daniel, are we safe now ? Estrild asked, 

“ Safe as the rock of Gibraltar, my dear. Did you think I 
was going to be circumvented by a set of foreign scamps like 
tliey traitors in the boats over yonder — Malays and low Greeks 
and niggers ? Dm thankful to say there isn’t an English sailor 
amongst ’em except the mate. No ; they are with us to a man. 
And, though Tom there, who is comforting that crying girl a 
little too hard, hasn’t the luck to be a sailor, yet he has the mak- 
ing of one in him. And he has done good work this night — 
brave work ! But for him, ‘ Dick the gunner’ couldn’t have got 
safe out of their hands. Each boat fancies he is in the other 
one. It is well for him and for us that he is here instead. I 
reckon they would have killed him when they found out the 
trick he’d played them. Now, my dear, I must work, and not 
talk, especially as I’m still a bit sleepy, as I had to drink some 
of the grog that she-wolf mixed, or she would have suspected 
me. 

** Daniel, is her husband dead ?” asked Estrild shrinkingly. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


329 


“No,” said Daniel, drawing a great breath of life; “but there 
is no hope for him. By sunset he will be gone.” 

“ Can 1 help him ? Can I do anything for him 

“ Perhaps you might read or speak a comforting word to him, 
if not afraid of such a sight as he is now.” 

“lam not afraid,” Estrild answered; “and Carrie will be 
with me.” 

As she turned away towards the companion-ladder, the sun 
lifted suddenly the great white veil from the sea, and she saw 
the boats making for the dim shore which stood in the south like 
a line upon the sky. She gazed at them for a moment in wist- 
ful pity, her eyes shadowed with the sorrow the innocent feel 
for the guilty. Then she looked back at Daniel and pointed to 
the distant shore. 

“ Daniel, what will they find there 

“Snakes and savages,” said the old sailor grimly, “and a line 
of surf a mile broad. Give scamps rope long enough, as I’ve 
done, and they’re sure to hang themselves. If the mate had 
kept from the bottle — well, then, I reckon, he wouldn’t have 
jumped overboard in the dark ; he’d have looked for his latitude 
at sea instead of falling on it headlong upon land.” 


CHAPTER XLV. 

If Harold soon recovered from his surprise on hearing Cum- 
berland’s confession, there were other things at Trame which 
sorely perplexed him. The master of the house was never visi- 
ble ; he lived in his own rooms, he saw' no guests, he received no 
visitors. He sent courteous messages to Harold, but never once 
permitted him to imagine an interview would be possible. As- 
sured by Mary and Doctor Arnold that this was his invariable 
custom, Harold could not look on it as an incivility, and yet it 
made him uneasy. An air of mystery was around him, a shadow 
of gloom so oppressive that he would have quitted Trame at 
once but for his anxiety to hear explanations which Mary and 
Cumberland evaded. 

The latter was the only happy one of the party, but his joy 
was not contagious. Mary often glanced at him wistfully, and 
Harold would fix a steady gaze upon his fresh young face, and 


330 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


wonder if it was indeed possible that, his hand, on board the 

Alert But at this point his thought always stopped with a 

sort of shock. It was so horrible to suppose him capable of 
crime, it seemed on reflection so impossible, that to ask a ques- 
tion on the matter, to draw near it even by a breath, was a 
deadly insult which could never be forgiven. Better let the 
mystery remain a mystery still buried in the sea with Trevel 
than stand up at a man’s own board and say, “ Do you know, in 
my secret heart, I am suspecting you of having blood upon your 
hands.” 

Thus Harold’s thoughts worked impatiently upon his brain, and 
doubt and pain mingled with his friendship for Cumberland and 
his gratitude to Mr. Irrian. He had cause to be grateful for he 
knew now that money had been spent lavishly to secure the ser- 
vice of true men who would stand by Daniel in any plan he might 
devise for the safety of the Venture. Mr. Yicat had paid well, 
but Mr. Irrian had paid better. Yet why he should care so 
much to protect Estrild from a danger which at that time ap- 
peared to be only imaginary he could not comprehend. The 
great benevolence for which he was famed did not appear a 
sufficient reason for this interference on behalf of a stranger. 
Moreover, the deepest puzzle in Harold’s mind lay in the fact of 
Mr. Irrian’s prescience of the danger that threatened Estrild ; 
others might vaguely suspect Mr. Vicat of foul play, but he from 
the first laid his hand on the black spotV^f treachery in the man’s 
heart ; and carefully, and through many weeks of watchful en- 
deavour, he prepared a counter-plan to defeat his cruel conspir- 
acy. Speaking of this ^o Mary, she answered that Mr. Irrian 
was a man of fair powers of mind, and he had an instinctive 
penetration which enabled liim to pierce through all masks and 
get at a man’s true character. 

“But he never saw Mr. Vicat,” observed Harold. 

“ He had heard of him from me,” said Mary, smiling, 

Harold was only half satisfied. 

“And had he heard too of Estrild from you?” he asked. 
“ You came only once to Mr. Vicat’s — you saw her only once,” 
he added, “ so personally you could not have felt any interest in 
her fate.” 

“You are mistaken,” Mary answered; “I saw her several 
times at Salisbury when she did not see me. And I was deeply 
interested in her because of Mr. Irrian’s intense anxiety ” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


331 


She stopped, then went on, with a slight flush on lier face, “You 
know he was at the same hotel, and naturally, being so ill him- 
self, he was sorry for her illness.^^ 

This was a bungling conclusion, and again Harold felt that, 
although her words might be true, a deeper truth lay behind 
them which she concealed. 

“And in this fact of an illness to each occurring at the same 
time and place lies the secret of Mr. Irrian’s interest in her?” he 
said tentatively. 

“ It is a pity you left the Bar,” returned Mary, with a laugh ; 
“you would have cross-exanined well. I see Doctor Arnold 
coming ; I shall turn you over to him now.” 

This talk had taken place in the garden, and Mary turned to 
leave him ; but Harold detained her for another question. 

“ Knowing of Estrild’s grief, why did you not relieve it by 
telling her I lived ?” he said. Surely you heard of me from 
Cum1)erland !” 

“Do you think,” asked Mary reproachfully, “that had he 
written to me, I would have kept back the truth for a moment? 
You forget that, knowing or guessing I was with his father, he 
dared not send me a letter.” 

“^nd is there a complete reconciliation between them now?” 

“I hope so,” Mary answered; but Harold saw that her lip 
quivered, and she walked away quickly, as if determined to 
avoid further questioning. 

On the night of Harold’s arrival Cumberland had confessed to 
him that a serious quarrel with his father had been the cause of 
his leaving home and going to India. But the whole subject 
had appeared so painful to him that Harold had abstained from 
dwelling on it, so that he still remained ignorant of the reason 
he had, or believed he had, for leaving his home and renouncing 
even his name. True, he had a right to the name of Cumber- 
land, as he had explained, for it was his mother’s name, and he 
inherited her property, which was considerable enough to make 
him independant. All this Harold had heard during the first 
half-hour of his stay at Trame, while he had kept his chaise wait- 
ing, meaning to depart as soon as his interview with Mary Arm- 
strong was over ; but as was natural on seeing his friend again, he 
soon yielded to his entreaty to remain as a guest. Not that 
Cumberland’s invitation alone decided him ; it was the curious 
mixture of doubt, of interest, of mystery unsolved, which lay like 


332 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


a cloud on his own mind that half consciously, half unconscious- 
ly, influenced him to reaiain at Traine. 

“It is a grand old pile,^^ said Doctor Arnold, corning up to him 
where he stood at the end of a yew-tree avenue, looking back at 
the sliadows gatherinng round the gables and peaks of Trame, 

“ I suppose it is very old ? Harold interrogated. 

“ As old as these yews ; there is not such another avenue in 
England — so sombre, so dark, and so ancient. Look at these 
gnarled trunks ; they are wonderful ! ” 

“Everything is wonderful at Trame, said Harold — “from 
Miss Armstrong’s music, which rushes like a wild wind through 
the dim corridors, down to myself, the guest of an invisible host, 

the friend of a man whom I half believe to be ” He stopped 

abruptly, looking up at the dark trees whose black shadows hung 
like a pall above him. 

“Whom you half believe to be a little cracked,” said Doctor 
Arnold, finishing the sentence in his own way. “ Weil, certain- 
ly young Irrian — or Cumberland, as you continue to call him — 
has strange ideas or, rather, as a medical man, I must call them 
delusions. It is through these that he quitted England. His 
departure was, in fact, a flight ; his father pui sued him, but was 
too late to stop his voyage to India.” 

“ Yes ; he thought it was a good place to get killed in,” inter- 
posed Harold. “ This much of his feelings he told me.” 

“ Just so ; he was overwhelmed with melancholy and a mad 
desire to die. But even that was not so strong as his wild wish 
to escape his father’s presence ; he seemed to hold him in a kind 
of horroi, and declared he would rush away to the ends of the 
earth rather than meet him again.” 

“ I suppose he has got ov( r that now ? said Harold. 

“ Well, you will think it strange when I tell you he has not. 
Although he is here at Trame, he has neither seen his father nor 
spoken to him since his return.” 

“That is strange indeed ! ” — and Harold pondered introspec- 
tively for a moment, his thoughts dwelling on scenes in India 
and phases of Cumberland’s character. “ I should not have 
thought him revengeful,” he said. “Surely the quarrel between 
father and son must have been very terrible, and Mr. Irrian must 
be to blame.” 

“ Captain Armstrong must have felt that also, or he would 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


333 


not have sheltered young Irrian on board his ship, or have pro- 
cured his commission for him in the Indian Army.” 

Harold felt as if he were drawing near tiie brink of a preci- 
pice, and that one step farther, one look beyond, would reveal to 
him some horror of which as yet he had only dreamed. For an 
instant he remained silent, then he was compelled to speak. 

“ Cumberland was on board the Alert just before the storm in 
which she was lost ? ” he said, in slow accents. 

He could not look up ; he waited for the answer with heart 
beating fast and lips growing pale and dry. The black shadow 
of the yews made a darkness around them — the two men scarce 
saw each other’s faces ; his paleness passed unnoticed. 

“ True,” said Doctor Arnold carelessly, never guessing what 
his words meant to Harold. “ And it was the belief that his 
son was drowned that caused Mr. Irrian’s illness at Salisbury. 
He was on his way back from Portsmouth, whither he had gone 
in the hope of finding him, when the terrible news reached him 
of the wreck of the Alert. Then Mary and Mrs. Armstrong 
came to him, bringing a letter.” 

“ Ah, yes ! ” interjected Harold. “ It was a letter given to 
me by an outward-bound East Indiaman.” 

“Just so,” continued Doctor Arnold ; “and you kindly took 
it to them yourself. Well, that letter saved Mr. Irrian’s life ; it 
was from Captain Armstrong, assuring him of his son’s safety. 
He knew then that the young fellow had left the Alert before the 
storm that wrecked her.” 

Harold drew a great breath and pressed against the sombre 
tree beneath which he stood ; he felt the need of some strength 
outside his own on which to lean. His very heart was trem- 
bling ; he found it impossible to think, he could decide on no plan 
of action that appeared to him within the bounds of his power. 
To accept a man’s hospitality and denounce his son — his only 
son ! No, it was impossible ! The course of action he might 
pursue pressed upon him in a confused way, broken, and following 
one on the other like clouds driven by the wind. Once hope 
sprang upon him in the thought that Cumberland was not guilty, 
except through some accident which had caused the shot ; but 
this hope died quickly. An innocent man does not fly from 
justice. Captain Armstrong would not have put to sea in 
threatening weather to save his friend only from the pain of 
giving evidence at an inquest. So on whichever side Harold 


334 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


looked there seemed to be no escape, no way by which he could 
avoid the dreadful duty that lay before him. 

“ These Trrians are gloomy men,” continued Doctor Arnold, 
as he walked up and down Vjeneath the shadows, while Harold 
still stood, dazed and sorrowful, leaning against the tree. “ Even 
the happy knowledge of liis son’s safety did not remove from Mr. 
Irrian the horrible melancholy that had seized upon him ; nothing 
soothed him but Mary’s musij. He spends his great income in 
doing good and yet treats himself as if he were a criminal.” 

“ What did you say ? ” asked Harold vaguely. “ A criminal V 

“Yes ; he dooms himself to solitary continement, as unworthy 
of human intercourse. Even Mary sits in an ante-room when 
she plays her harp to him.- Sometimes through the partially 
open door he will wave a pale hand to her in thanks, or more 
rarely still he will let her see his face with a sad smile on it, 
while a word or two of blessing fall from his lips which would 
wring a heart of stone.” 

“Mad, I suppose?” said Harold. 

“ Mad ? No — sane as you or I. He manages all his affairs 
with a clearness and precision quite wonderful. It is simple 
grief that is destroying him — grief that is eating heart and life 
away.” 

A light seemed to break upon Harold’s mind. Was he aware 
of his son’s guilt, and was it this knowledge that was killing 
him ? 

“ Since when has he led this strange lanely life of penance ? ” 
he asked, raising his head at last, and looking keenly at Doctor 
Arnold. 

“ Since his illness at Salisbury. I have attended him since 
that period, coming here at intervals^-more at Mary’s wisli than 
his. I would do much for Mary ; she is a girl endowed with 
great strength of character, and she possesses too, wonderful 
soothing powers. She is full of love and gentleness ; she could 
persuade a lion to be a lamb.” 

“ I know she is persuasive ; her sweet voice wins souls and 
makes a man forget his duty,” said Harold, in a low bitter tone, 
as though speaking to himself. 

“ Eh — what ? ” said the Doctor. “ No, she is not at all that 
sort of girl. She is like the tinest steel, pliable and gentle, yet 
strong.” 

“ Only since his illness he has had this gloom, did you say ? ” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


335 


asked Harold, passing over the doctor^s intervening words as 
though he had not heard them. 

“ Well, I can hardly affirm that, for I hear that he was always 
of a sad nature, given to fitful moods of gloom. And, strange 
to say, when he was young, during his father’s lifetime, he 
evinced much the same disposition as his son. He too went into 
the Army and did his utmost to get killed. Young Irrian was 
desperately rash, I believe, in India.” 

“ Yes — savagely determined to die if he could,” said Harold. 
“ But he seems to have forgotten his gloom, or at all events he 
can hide it more easily now than he did then.” 

Harold did not hear Doctor Arnold’s answer ; he had relapsed 
into thought. Bather and son had not met, though under the 
same roof and apparently reconciled. Could it be that this 
sorrowing and mournful recluse doing penance for his son’s sin 
could bear all things except the sight of his face ? Was he 
virtually saying, “I can forgive you, I can hide your crime, I 
can even slowly die for it ; but I cannot touch your hand, I can- 
not suffer your presence ” ? 

“ Well, yes, the young fellow seems lighted-hearted enough ; 
yet somehow he always gives me the impression that his gaiety 
is forced. I knew a man once who lived under a secret horror, 
which he was always striving to hide or to shake off. Now I 
see an old resemblance at times between that man and young 
Irrian.” 

“ What became of him ? ” asked Harold, rousing himself. 

“Well, I thought he would commit suicide ; but he didn’t — 
he lived to be hanged. He was a man of my profession ; he had 
poisoned his wife.” 

“ I shall leave Trame to-night,” said Harold. 

“What ! ” exclaimed the Doctor, turning back on his path to 
look at him. “You don’t sefem well, Olver — your eyes are slight- 
ly dilated. Have you seen the Trame ghost ? ” 

“Is there a ghost ?” asked Harold, pressing his hand on his 
forehead. “I wish I could see it, and it would tell me what — 
what path leads out of the labyrinth. Yes, I do feel a little 
strange. I am indebted to Mr. Irrian for Estrild’s life, am I 
not ? And I think I understand why he has saved her. Yes, I 
owe her life and my happiness to this sad, melancholy man. Oh, 
I must certainly quit Trame at once ! Then there is Mary 


336 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Armstrong too — she loves Cumberland. Is there a place near 
this where I can hire a carriage ? ” 

You are slightly feverish,’^ said Doctor Arnold, holding him 
now by the wrist. “ Yoju are not fit to travel to-day — I set my 
veto upon it ; and there is no chaise to be had nearer than the 
town. Let us walk ; you are wrong to stand still beneath these 
deep shadows. You have caught a chill.’’ 

“ I am quite well,” Harold answered, walking on with him ab- 
stractedly. ‘‘ 1 was thinking over what you said just now — 
that, where there is a secret horror which a man tries to beat 
dowm, it arises from some act or fact of which the world is ignor- 
ant.” 

‘‘ Certainly it does in most instances — that is where there is no 
disease, mind you. So you have found out my little friend 
Mary’s secret ? Upon my word, I believe she would let herself 
be boiled alive to spare that young fellow any trouble.” 

“ Ho doubt — no doubt,” said Harold. “ Yes, I perceive her 
motive throughout has been love for Cumberland. It is a pity — 
a sad pity 1 ” 

“Well, between ourselves, I think so too. These haunted men 
ought not to marry.” 

“Haunted !” repeated Harold, with aw^an smile. “I suppose 
you mean haunted by remorse. There must be some farm or 
place near where I can at least hire a horse ? ” 

“ There are horses and to spare at Trame. But you must lis- 
ten to reason ; you cannot leave • in this hurried way — it would 
give offence. Mr. Irrian is very sensitive to any slight shown 
to him. You surely owe him some consideration ! ” 

“ I owe him more than I can ever pay. I am deeply sorry for 
him.” 

“Then you must endure our society for a day or tw’o longer, 
especially as you are not well, and are under no strong necessity 
to depart.” 

“There is the strongest necessity possible,” said Harold. “ If 
I stay here, I shall bring trouble. Nine miles — it is not far ; I 
can walk to the town.” 

“ And get lost on the hills ! It is too late to dream of such a 
project. I perceive your nerves are a little shaken. Seriously 
now, have you seen or heard the Trame ghost?” 

“ Is it the ghost of a hidden crime ? ” asked Harold in a 


FROM THE OTHER SIDR 


'537 


bitter tone. “ One sees that unfortunately in all shapes m this 
world.’^ 

“ True. But this particular ghost is a rarer sort. It is two 
years or more since it was last seen. There is an idea prevalent 
that Mary keeps it away, and that it had no power to appear 
while she is at Tranie. Evil spirits connot come into her 
presence. I believe it is her music that makes the charm, 
and the old Crusader and his chant are fain to vanish before 
it.” 

Harold stopped suddenly, with all his wandering thoughts 
brought instantly into a single focus. 

“ Is this ghost a Crusader ? ” he asked, in a changed voice. 

“ They say he is.” 

“Then I should like to see him.” 

“ Well, you may have an opportunity after to-morrow, for th®^ 
spell of Mary^s music will be removed. She is going to Carlisle 
for a few days, I am sorry to say.” 

“ Then I will stay at Trame,” said Harold, “ for those few 
days.” 

“ I am glad to hear it. I should be horribly lonely otherwise, 
for young Irrian escorts Mar* /ourney. So, you see, you 

and I will have Trame and i^o ourselves.” 

“You leave out the master of Trame.” 

“ Poor man — he is a ghost himself ! Only a pale hand s«en 
at the door or window — only the shadow of a haggard face pasis- 
ing over wall or blind ! ” 


CHAPTER XLYI. 

It was a relief to Harold to know that he would be spared the 
companionship of Cumberland, as he still always called him. 
There was only this one evening in which to endure his presence ^ 
in the morning he would leave for Carlisle with Mary ; and Har- 
old resolved to quit Trame before his return. 

To himself he scarcely gave a reason for his sudden change ol 
purpose in remaining a few days longer. It was partly an in- 
stinctive feeling that he ought to stay and partly a superstitious 
feeling which decided him, and above all perliaps it was the 
weight removed from his mind knowing that Cumberland would 


338 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


be absent. To remain, if he were at Trame, would be impossilde ; 
the mental suffering to himself — perhaps to both — would be great. 
He said “to both,’^ because at times, in the midst of his joyous- 
ness, Cumberland would cast an uneasy glance his way, and in 
addressing him there was a timidity in his manner, a quiver in 
voice which spoke of fear and grief. 

The whole situation was full of sorrow, dismay, and doubt ; 
and, though for a few minutes Harold might converse and fling 
off his burden, yet after this momentary ease his mind like a 
bent steel, flew back to its old attitude of watchful yet confused 
pain. 

That evening they all sat in a large room called the library. 
It was full of shadows and recesses, and it had a dark groined 
roof and deep ancient windows with seats around them. 

Mary and Cumberland sat together in the embrasure of one 
these windows. It loo^Ned out upon the yew-tree walk, and the 
waterfall, in a subdued murmur, pierced the thick glass in low 
music. The darkness of the yews without and the heavy shadow 
of the velvet window-curtain nearly hid these two figures. The 
light of the solitary lamp seemed to flit by their faces, to throw 
a slight glow within the darkness of the yews, where, at the en- 
trance of the long black walk, it made a little circle of flickering 
fire. 

Doctor Arnold and Harold sometimes spoke together, but both 
were reading, and one was engrossed with his book, while the 
other was full of dark thoughts. 

He glanced often at the lovers with a wistful sort of envy, the 
shadow of Estrild standing at the threshold of all the avenues of 
his troubled thought. To his fancy she seemed to guard these 
people, whispering continually of safety on the sea through Mary 
and the master of Trame. \V ell, he had striven nobly to expiate 
his son’s guilt, and for his sake 

Here his thought broke, for a few murmured words from the 
window fell upon his ear. 

“Leonard, I hate to see you so happy,” said Mary — “it is 
cruel !’’ 

Her lover laughed and whispered back some answer unheard. 

“ I have been thinking,” observed Doctor Arnold, laying his 
book on his knee, “over your remark this evening on the horror 
arising in the mind from secret act or fact of which the sulFerer 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


339 


himself alone is cognisant. I believe, if truth were told, this is 
the source of half the grief in the world.” 

“ In other words,” said Harold, “ you mean man is created 
with a conscience and gifted with a memory.” - 

He glanced towards the window. Mary was listening with 
fixed sorrowful eyes ; Cumberland had ceased to laugh, but his 
face was turned towards the darkness without, as if he would 
not hear, or heard unwillingly. A wan smile touched Harold’s 
lips. 

“ No ; the feeling to which I allude,” continued Doctor Arn- 
old, “ is stronger than conscience and clearer-sighted than 
memory. It is instinct ; and behind instinct there always lies 
some great truth, or reason, if you prefer that word.” 

“ Don’t listen, Mary,” whispered Cumberland. “Why does 
he prose like that, making one’s flesh creep ? ” 

Mary moved slightly away from him ; he kept his head turned 
to the window, his eyes fixed on the yew-tree walk ; the little 
circle of light that flickered and gleamed on its entrance touched 
his young face fitfully with a pale light. Harold heard his words, 
and kept silent, all his heart listening, hoping for he knew not 
what. 

“ Instinct is, in reality, faith,” continued the Doctor. “The 
whole living world teaches us that. The young bird who has 
never seen the sea crosses the ocena, believing he shall find 
land ; and he does. It is through belying his faith the criminal 
suffers.” 

“ Why begrudge me my light-heartedness, Mary,” broke in 
Cumberland’s voice. “ It will not last long. Are you preaching 
to us. Doctor ] ” he asked, turning to him with a slight laugh. 
“Let me say a word for the criminal, who lives alone within the 
circle of horror and hatred that the world and his own heart 
draw around him. It is stronger than his prison walls ; it is a 
ring of fire which he cannot cross ” 

“ What is that outside ? ” asked Doctor Arnold, interrupting 
hurriedly. 

A figure was standing just within the flickering flame or re- 
flection of the lamplight which fell on the arched entrance of the 
yew-tree walk. And behind him was black darkness, and the 
shadow of light in which he stood did not reach his face ; it only 
touched his pale hand, which hung listless by his side. His at- 
titude was inexpressibly mournful, and in an instant — even as 


340 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


the eye fell on him — he turned and vanished within the black 
depth that stretched beyond him. 

“ It was Mr. Irrian/’ said Mary. “ He walks in the yew-tree 
avenue at times at night.” 

Harold, being farthest from the window, had caught no 
glimpse of the sad lonely figure, and, though he half rose at 
Doctor Arnold^s exclamation, he did not take a step forward, a 
feeling of delicacy holding him to his seat. 

He was glad when Mary hastily drew down the blind. The 
solitary walk in darkness which the master of Trame allowed 
himself ought not to be intruded on even by a glance. 

As Cumberland came forward from the window, Harold saw 
he was very pale, and his hand shook as, holding it over chin 
and mouth, he hid the trembling of his lips. 

“ How ghastly it is to see a son so shaken by the sight of the 
father upon whose heart he has laid such a burden ! ” said Har- 
old to himself. 

But, if Cumberland was shaken, he flung ofl* his agitation 
quickly ; and, coming behind Mary’s chair, he pressed her 
head back upon his breast, and, stooping, kissed her on the fore- 
head. 

“ Mary, you are my antidote for every ill,” he whispered. 
“ Dearest, you must not stay long away. I could not endure 
the horror of this place alone.” 

“ I must remain a fortnight,” Mary answered. “ Mr. Olver, 1 
go every year to Carlisle to pay a visit to my great-aunt, old 
Mrs. Cumberland ; she is the link of relationship between me 
and Mr. Irrian. Cannot you stay here till I return ? Oh, I 
wish you would try to stay ! ” 

“ I cannot indeed,” said Harold decidedly. “ It is quite im- 
possible.” 

Cumberland did not speak ; evidently he dared not second 
Mary’s invitatioa 

A silence fell on the little party, broken only by the measured 
step without, which came and went as the lonely master of 
Trame passed up and down beneath the darkness of the yews* 
His son at times threw a hasty glance towards the curtained 
window, and seemed to grow impatient and angry. He rose 
suddenly and began to stride up and down the long room, his 
tread sounding like a wistful echo of the steps without. 

A certain uneasiness, a curious expectancy, seemed to per- 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


341 


vade all minds but his. Yet no one spoke of this ; they were 
like a party awaiting the reading of a will or the appearance of a 
spectre, when no one likes to disclose his hope, his fear, or the 
shrinking of his flesh to another. 

Why was Mr. Irrian pacing that funeral walk in such bitter 
loneliness? Would he come to the window and look in upon 
them with the horrible feelings of a Frankenstein to whom all 
home comforts were denied ; or would he suddenly appear 
amongst them and claim his rightful place by his own fireside ? 
This surely would be natural ; and yet Harold shrank from the 
thought with a kind of horror. That Mr. Irrian should stand 
without in the cold flicker of his own lamplight, or pace the dark- 
ness to and fro stealthily like an outcast, seemed to him — he 
knew not why — more fitting than that he should place himself 
amongst them like an ordinary man whose soul sorrow had not 
withered. 

Mary, give us some music,” said Cumberland, stopping sud- 
denly by her chair. 

“ Not now,” she answered in a low voice, “He would come 
to the window to listen. I could not bear it ; the sorrow of it 
all would be too much for me. Oh, Leonard, you have l)eeR too 
happy — cruelly happy of late I ” 

The young man turned away as if in anger, and paced the 
room again, but at the darkest end he stopped, and burst into a 
harsh laugh. 

“ Olver, I must go out to India again, and get killed in earnest 
this time. That will please Mary. You won’t be there to hin- 
der me.” 

“No,” said Harold, with laconic coldness, 

“ Well, it is rather hard, having had my life saved against my 
will, that I should be reproached for enjoying it a little.” 

“ Not for that,” interposed Mary^ “but for the cause of your 

joy-” 

She spoke hurriedly and checked herself, as if alarmed at her 
own words. Harold saw her grow pale. 

A short silence followed her speech, as her listeners considered 
it was meant for Cumberland alone. Still standing in the dark- 
ness, he turned now to Doctor Arnold. 

“ These hereditary instincts are strange things. Doctor. Don’t 
they, to your mind, excuse the sinner ? A curse runs in his 


342 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


blood, you see. Can the children of Canaan help it if theif 
father was accursed ? ’’ 

“ It is a wide question, said the Doctor. “ It is possible to 
escape a curse.” 

“ Yes r said Cumberland ; and his voice came out of the dark- 
ness with a sigh in the old wistful way Harold remembered so 
well in India. Somehow the doubtful affirmative touched him, 
and he looked towards the young dim figure more kindly. 

“ Let us put a case,” continued Cumberland. “In Germany 
the office of executioner is or was hereditary. How in such a 
race a thirst for blood might run throught their veins — the desire 
to kill might be a passion.” 

“It mightj” said Doctor Arnold. “And in the execution of 
criminals the passion would be gratified.” 

“ Without sin ? ” said Cumberland ; and, stepping farther 
back, he leaned against the old oak panelling of the wall, where 
his figure looked like a shadow or a picture seen dimly. 

Glancing at him thus, a perplexing memory fell on Harold's 
mind of some shadowy resemblance to some one forgotten. 

“ Ho, not without sin, if he did his horrible work not as a duty 
laid on him, but as a ghastly thing of joy.” 

“ Ah, you are right there ! But I have not finished my case 
yet. The executioners may abhor the office forced upon them, 
may seek with anguish every outlet of escape, and, finding none, 
may strive to die. Would they be to blame if they rushed on 
death ? ” 

“ Come, come, young man — you are talking unhealthily ! ” said 
the Doctor. “ I shall not answer that question.” 

“Well, then, I will put another,” returned Cumberland, in 
the same sad voice. “ Let us suppose it possible that only one 
criminal is left in the kingdom, and, that one being dead, the 
executioner is free of his office for ever. How, if that unfortun- 
ate being were in such danger of death that escape from it seem- 
ed beyond hope, would it be a sin in the man on whom the doom 
of executioner fell to be a little glad 

Ho one replied, for Mary rose hurriedly, and going into the 
dimness where her lover stood, put her hand on his arm and 
whispered to him. In a moment more he came forward a little 
into the light, and, throwing back his head, laughed in a forced 
way. . 

“ Mary cannot complain of my cheerfulness this evening,” he 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


343 


said. “I have been gloomy as a tombstone. I feel as if I should 
never be glad again. I am going to relieve you ot my shadow. 
Good night 

He went without holding out his hand to any one. Mary 
followed him wistfully with her eyes, and then returned to her 
seat by the fire, and took up her work again. 

“ He cannot bear to hear Mr. Irrian pacing the yew-tree walk 
in that mournful way,^’ she said, as if excusing him. ‘‘ It tries 
his nerves.” 

“ He has been rather odd to-night,” observed the Doctor ; “but 
he is a young fellow who often says odd things. That was a 
queer notion of his about the hereditary executioner being glad 

if some one else killed ” He stopped, for a slight sound 

struck the window-pane ; it was as though a finger had tapped 
on it, as if asking for admittance. “ Can Mr. Irrian wish to 
speak to me?” he asked. 

“ Oh, no !” Mary answered. “ It was only a leaf blown against 

the pane.” 

Harold went to the window and drew aside the blind ; all 
without was blank emptiness and darkness. A sharp wind was 
blowing strongly from the east ; it waved the yew-trees like 
funeral plumes. Dark clouds were sweeping across a sky faintly 
visible by the light of a few stars. A thickness was in the air 
like the damp mist arising from dead leaves ; the atmosphere 
seemed charged with something deadly. It gave Harold a pecu- 
liar unpleasant thrill, as still holding the blind back, he stood a 
moment looking out upon the night, and listened to the sound of 
the waterfall, which, shaken by the wind, rushed downwards 
with an unwonted wail. 

He let the blind fall back, and returned to his seat with a 
vague feeling that something was wrong or some dft^ger was 
near. People who have suffered sorrow or passed through dan- 
' gers know the feeling well, yet none can explain it for none 
know its cause. It is an uneasiness which warns them that all 
is not well ; it is a voice without speech ; it is unlike anything 
else that can be felt. Moreover, it is seldom that this inward 
foreboding can be expressed to another; it passes thronght the 
soul silently, and steals away as it came, without words. 

Doctor Arnold had vanished ; Harold and Mary were alone. 
He was glad, for he felt a need to say good-bye to her with all 
the kindness she deserved. In the happy calm of Mary’s young 


344 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


personality his forebodings passed ; hope smiled upon him again. 
Her influence was always calming ; child as she seemed in ap- 
pearance, she was strong in heart and mind ; and her voice and 
touch were a tonic against all morbid thoughts. 

“ Mary, you know I have kept my promise,’^ Harold said — 
“ the promise made when you gave mo this ; and he showed her 
the jewelled pen. “ I have hurt no one you loved.” 

‘‘ You saved his life,” she answered simply. 

“ I did not know then he was the man I had pursued so far as 
India. When I knew it, I left him. I never opened the letter 
he gave me with his father’s address. Had I opened it, I should 
not have come here, unless news had reached me of his death. 
Mary, when I leave Trame I hope I shall never meet him again. 
He wull go away early to-morrow without a good-bye, and it is 
better so. I do not think I could take his hand.” 

Mary bent her head forward ; her tears were falling quietly. 

“ Why not ? ” she said, in a faint voice. 

“ I cannot tell you why. It is better you should not know.. 
Your father saved him once, and now you, Mary, save him again, 
for it was for your sake in India, it is for your sake here at 
Trame that I withhold my hand.” 

At that instant the slight sound at the window came again, 
and Harold started and glanced towards it, but did not again 
move from his seat to look out upon the night. 

“ I confess,” he continued, ‘Hhat, if Estrild had not recalled 
me and given up her superstitious fear of the future, I could not 
act as I am acting now.” 

“ And do you think you are acting justly ? ” Mary asked, with 
bitterness in her tone. 

“ No, not justly. But the man whom you love, the man whom 
your father died to save, I must try to forgive. One thing more 
— I cannot forget all that you and Mr. Irrian have done to save 
Estrild. Eor that good deed which gives me my life’s happiness, 
I owe forgiveness for that other deed.” 

“ Hush ! ” Mary interposed hurriedly. “ I will hear no moT*e, 
lest you say something I cannot forgive. You know not what 
you say. There are mysteries and griefs around us that neither 
you nor I can understand ! ” 

She was very pale, her voice shook, her hand trembled as she 
held it out to him. Her manner more than her words, impressed 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


345 


Harold strangely, and the peculiar thrill which the chill air had 
given him at the window rushed through his veins again. 

“ Good night and good-bye,’^ Mary said kindly. “ You and 
I can never have aught but goodwill to each other, happen what 
may.'’ 

“ Never ” returned Harold emphatically. 

“ You strove to save my father’s life's ; you rushed among a 
thousand deaths to rescue Leonard " — again her voice shook — “ I 
owe you more than I can ever pay." She turned her face from 
him — it had grown paler and paler. “ Keep Estrild in London ; 
Langarth is an unlucky dwelling." 

“ She shall not live there," Harold said. 

These simple words seemed to break down Mary's calmness. 
She clasped her hands a little wildly. 

“ Mr. Irrian has done all that man can do to save her I " she 

cried. “He cannnt fight against the unseen power " She 

checked herself, and her large gray eyes, full of a piteous prayer, 
seemed to ask pardon as she gazed up into Harold’s face. 

“ You speak truly," he said. “ Death comes to Langai’th by 
a strange messenger." 

“ Yes ; " and with a shudder she nestled close to him, as a 
child would in fear. 

He put his arm around her with something of the same feeling 
that he had on their first interview, when he had fitted her to 
his knee as a child, and, looking down on her wonderfully inno- 
cent infantine face, he bent to kiss her. She gave him her 
cheek quietly, as a child might, without a shade of colour touch- 
ing its pure paleness. 

“You will never hurt any one I love ?” she said, her great eyes 
pleading with him more passionately than her voice. 

“ No, never," he answered — for at that moment he felt he 
could refuse nothing to Mary Armstrong. There was not a 
shadow of any unfaithfulness in this to the great love that had 
filled his heart for years ; it was due only to the wonderful charm 
of the girl who had the purity and peace of a child with the soul 
of a woman. 

Once more they said good-bye, and parted. Cumberland’s 
voice from the hall without was calling, “ Mary — Mary 1 " and 
she hurried away quickly. 

Left alone, Harold sank into a reverie, watching the embers 
burn low on the hearth, and dreaming of the days to come. He 


346 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


heard the opening and shutting of doors, but paid no heed to it, 
nor cared to rouse himself till a servant entered to put out the 
lamp. 

“ Oh, I will do it ! Harold said carelessly. 

But the man stood still within the door — he had a scared 
look. 

“ Young Mr. Irrian and Miss Armstrong are gone, sir,” he 
said. 

“ Gone,” Harold cried — “at this time of night! I thought 
they did not leave till the morning ? ” 

“ Mr. Leonard changed his mind, sir, and insisted on leaving 
at once. Miss Armstrong will catch the Carlisle coach ; it passes 
the east lodge at midnight.” 

Harold remained silent, pondering a moment in surprise. 

“ When will young Mr. Irrian return ? ” he asked. 

“ Oh, sir, I fear he means never to come back ! He has left 
Trame as he did once before. Oh, this will be a sad trouble to 
Miss Mary and his father ! ” 

“ But Miss Armstreng is with him ? ” 

“Ho, sir, he saw her only to the coach ; then he came back, 
saddled his horse himself, and rode away.” 

Harold listened in amazement. What could Cumberland have 
said to Mary to induce her to consent to this change of plan 1 

“ Perhaps he has ridden to overtake the coach ? ” 

“No, sir ; I saw him take the south road, riding like the 
wind ! ” 

A blank look of terror settled on the man’s face ; he stood 
stolidly still, as if wishing to be questioned, yet afraid to answer. 

“Is this the way in which young Mr.* Irrian left home the 
last time he fled 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ And his father knew nothing of his departure?” — “ No, 
sir.” 

“Is he aware of it now ? ” 

“ I think not. I dare not tell him. Good night, sir 1 ” 

“ Good night,” said Harold. “ Doubtless we shall get news in 
the morning.” 

The man shook his head and closed the door. 

Once more Harold was alone, with new feelings to stir hi* 
thoughts through all the windings of his imagination. 

Had Cumberland fled from his presence in fear of him, seeing 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


347 


his suspicions ? Had Mary repeated liis words, and so strength- 
ened his sudden resolve to fly in secret, not even telling her of 
his decision? She had gone in ignorance of it, Harold was cer- 
tain ; and he must have invented some reason to hurry her de- 
parture. Or could it be that 'Cumberland was unable to endure 
his position in his home under the roof of the father whose face 
he never saw, whose voice he never heard ? 

His punishment, like Cain’s, had been greater than he could 
bear, and, like Cain, he had fled beneath the burden of it into 
the secret places of the wi]derrie>s. 

“ Poor Mary,^' said Harold, almost aloud, a touch of infinite 
pity in his voice — “ what sull'ering awaits her ! And that un- 
happy man condemned to loneliness, how will he endure this new 
misery ? 

Harold glanced towards the window, for he fancied Mr. Irrian 
was still without ; then he rose and extinguished the lamp, for- 
getting that now he would have to find his way to his room in 
darkness. 

In the moment when he stood irresolute, wishing some light 
were near at hand, the slight noise at the window like the tap- 
ping of a finger fell on his ear again. By the faint glow of the 
wood-fire he made his way to the hearth and stirred the embers ; 
a bright flame shot up ; and in the light of this he went to the 
window and raised the blind. At that instant a hand touched 
the pane, beckoning for admittance. It was a long gaunt hand, 
pale as the hand of a dead man and fleshless as a skeleton’s. In- 
stinctively and hurriedly Harold drew back, fearing to intrude 
his presence on Mr. Irrian’s sad eyes. 

“He takes me for the servant,” he said to himself, “naturally 
as the man always puts out the lamp.” 

He imagined Mr. Irrian had been shut out inadvertently, and 
was now seeking admittance, and, undecided how to act, he wait- 
ed a moment, hoping to hear a servant’s step or the opening of 
the hall door. The silence however around him was unbroken, 
and then he drew back the blind again. The darkness upon 
which he looked out, intensified by the flame of the wood within, 
hung before him like a black veil, hiding earth and sky. No- 
thing was visible, not even the dim waving of the yews ; and no 
pale figure came forward, no step sounded on the gravel. 

“ He has recognised me,” Harold said, “ and, as usual, has re- 
treated into his solitude. I will open the window and leave the 


348 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


room. He will find it open when he comes again. I cannot call 
out to him — it would be an intrusion.’^ 

So Harold unclasped the heavy ancient casement ; and, as he 
did this, he saw the pale hand again lying on the stone window- 
sill, the flame from the fire, now dying down, illumining it with a 
faint fitful light. No figure was visible, for the light touched 
the hand only ; and, as Harold opened the casement, it instantly 
glided upwards, and, clutching it, got within. 

Startled, Harold drew back hurriedly, a strange sensation 
seizing him at th • heart, which he reasoned down as he hastened 
from the room into the darkness of the great hall and staircase. 
Here for an instant he stood still, and fancied he heard the case- 
ment flung back, followed by the sound of a step on the polished 
floor. 

“1 cannot have made a mistake,” he said to himself. “It 
was Mr. Irrian. Mary saw hini.” 

Reassured, yet uneasy — he knew not why — he hurried grop- 
ingly up the stairs, and, looking down from the gallery above, he 
saw the hand again gliding stealthily up the heavy oak banis- 
ters. 

With a beating heart Harold watched it to the turn in the 
great staircase which led to Mr. Irrian^s rooms. Here it touched 
the curtain which hung over the doorway, and vanished within 
the darkness. 

Harold drew a long breath of relief, and yet all his flesh had 
turned cold. 

“Mr. Irrian has a singular repelling atmosphere about him,” 
he said, to himself, as he got within the glow and light of his 
own room. “I am not sorry he keeps himself from the sight of 
his rare guests.” 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

Harold passed a disturbed night. When sleep came at last, 
it brought vivid dreams of Estrild, of Langarth, of the ship tos- 
sing in a stormy sea, of dangers threatening her that Daniel 
could not avert; and mingled with these came ever a vision of 
the Dark Rider, whom he was following through the windings 
of interminable roads, with the pale hand that had clutched the 
window pointing the way where cross roads met. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


349 


In the cold deep darkness of the hour before dawn he awoke 
with the same foreboding and sense of danger that had touched 
his heart the niglit before. This feeling was so strong, so keen 
now that he resolved to rise and leave Trame with the morning 
light. The precience of evil about to fall on Estrild could not 
be driven from his mind, the necessity for taking some action to 
save her pressed upon him like a burning fever, or like a driving 
wind that impelled him forward on an unknown coursa It was 
in vain he reasoned with himself, saying again and again that all 
efforts of his must be futile, for he was on land and she was at sea. 
What would it avail a tempest-tossed ship if he sought the shore 
and held out weak and frantic arms towards her across the rag- 
ing waves 1 Nothing — there was nothing he could do to keep 
her from drifting on to wreck. But Daniel was a brave and 
skilful sailor ; he would save the ship — he would save Estrild if 
man could do it. 

These arguments had no effect upon the burning restlessness 
of his mind ; he felt compelled to action as by a power outside 
himself, and which yet held his spirit as with a grasp of fire. 
Yielding to this strange force, he rose and drew aside the curtain 
of his window, hoping for some dim light from the sky and star 
by which to dress. A faint gray tinged the east and defined the 
rugged outlines of the great hill that towered above Trame ; but 
the plateau on which it stood was still within its night 
shadow, and the river, swollen to a torrent, rushed on in black 
darkness. 

Harold listened for a moment to its fierce roar, which sent an 
echo and a thrill through the old house which wandered from 
corridor to corridor, winding its way to every door like the wail 
of a lost spirit. 

“ It is not s]grprising,” Harold thought, ‘‘that superstition has 
touched this old place with the name of a haunted house. The 
sound of the waterfall is like the rhythmic flow of an ancient 
song that speaks of battles long forgotten, of lives and sorrows 
wasted away ; it is like — the Crusader^s Chant ! ” 

The thought struck him suddenly with a startling thrill of 
memory mingled with a wonder that the fancy oi* the resemblance 
had not reached his mind earlier. 

The tempest which had darkened the air the night before was 
now raging in full fury ; great gusts of wind rushed down from 
the hill-tops and roared along the valley, striking the house as 


350 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


they swooped by with a blow that made its strong casements 
quiver. It was like the rush of innumerable wings speeding in 
darkness to an unknown battle. 

The awe of the storm added inexpressibly to the mournful ness 
of Harold s foreboding spirit, and the awakening dawn did not 
remove the weight from his mind, for it came with the growl of 
thunder and a downpour of fierce rain. Too restless to remain 
in his room, he descended the staircase in silence and darkness, 
feeling dimly that, if a step should sound or a whisper be spoken, 
the ghost that haunted Trarne might rise at his right hand and 
ask why he — a stranger — had come to its ancient roof to trace 
its secret and tell of its guilt. 

As he descended the last stair of the wide flight, a door was 
opened, a sudden flash of light sprang out upon him, and Doctor 
Arnold stood before him, pale and troubled. 

“Is that you. Giver ? he said, in an astonished but low voice* 
“ Come in here — 1 have something strange to tell you.^’ 

Harold obeyed, and the Doctor closed the door carefully be- 
hind him. 

“ I have been up all night,’' he said. “ And what a night of 
storm and din ! Mr. Irrian is ill — strangely ill, and feverish. 
He is a haunted man — he has seen the Trame ghost.” 

“ Impossible ! ” said Harold, stepping back, almost angry in 
his amazement. “You mean he is delirious, owing to the shock, 
I suppose, of his son’s cruel flight.” 

“No,” returned the Doctor gravely; “I mean what I have 
said. And, Giver ” — he drew closer to him and touched him on 
the shoulder — “ I have seen it also.” 

Harold stared at him, and again drew back, for the Doctor’s 
touch had a thrill of ice in it. 

“Seen what?” he exclaimed. “The ghost ?’^and he tried 
to laugh, but it was a laugh that died in his throat “ What 
was it like ? ” 

“ It is like the cold white hand of a dead man. It beckons 
incessantly. I tell you such a vision is horrible. I cannot stay 
here, Giver. Who admitted it, I wonder? It can never enter 
the house unless door or window is open to its importunate 
beckoning.” 

“ I saw it last night,” said Harold. “ I opened the window 
at its bidding.” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


351 


He fell into a chair, and his hands now were as cold as those 
of Doctor Arnold, who had grasped him with chill fingers. 

‘‘ I thought it was Mr. Irriari,’’ he continued, ‘‘ who had been 
shut out bj mistake.’^ 

His face was a little white, his voice rather shaken, but he 
was growing full of disbelief and wonder, not of fear. 

‘‘ That never happens,’^ said Doctor Arnold. ‘‘ Have you not 
noticed a stone staircase that runs down from the carved ancient 
balcony outside his window ? By that way he goes out and comes 
in unseen. 

‘‘ But it was certainly Mr. Irrian at the window,’’ persisted 
Harold, incredulous still. 

‘‘When? Do you mean after I left you and Mary?” asked 
Doctor Arnold. 

“ Yes.” 

“ I went straight to Mr. Irrian then ; and, although I did not 
enter his room to disturb him, I spoke to him from the ante- 
room, and wished him good night, and he answered cheerfully.” 

Harold remembered the stone staircase ; it descended to an 
unfrequented part of the grounds, densely wooded ; and its 
balustrade and the balcony above were covered with creeping 
plants the dying leaves of which hung about it, damp and list- 
less. 

“Mr. Irrian must have gone out again,” he said, “after you 
left his room.” 

“I did not leave it. I have not left it all night till within 
the last half-hour. The casement that opens upon the balcony 
is in the ante-room where I sat.” 

“ And you stayed there at Mr. Irrian’s request ? ” 

“ Yes. So far from wishing to go out, he even asked me to 
lock that casement door and keep the key.” 

“ That was an odd req^:?st.” 

“ From any other person it might be considered so, but not 
from a man of his nervous temperament. It was after I had 
locked this door that I saw tiie apparition of the hand. A cur- 
tain, as you know, hangs on the outside of the door that opens 
upon the staircase. I had left this unclosed, and I saw the cur- 
tain sway to and fro, as though some one was moving it from 
without ; then the white fingers came inside, clutching it, then 
the whole hand entered, beckoning and pointing to the casement 
door I had locked. The gesture was unmistakable — I was order- 


352 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


ed to open it. I rose, grasping the table by which I sat. I 'was 
in a cold sweat. I felt iny hair rise and nry heart flutter danger- 
ously — all my blood had rushed to it. With eyes fixed, I watch- 
ed the infernal thing as it quivered and beckoned, standing in 
the air about the height of a man's hand. There was a cold light 
about it which made it visible, thought it was so shadowy that 
I constantly saw it disappear, only to appear again. My teeth 
chattered in my head ; I could bear no more. I closed my eyes 
in horror as the thing drew nearer, and when I opened them 
again, with a great shudder, it w as gone. Then I was able to 
speak I called out in agony, ‘ Irrian — Irrian !' He answered 
me in a dreadful voice of calm, ‘ Arnold, it is here ! Do not 
leave me ! ^ After that there was dead silence. I knew he 
could not speak with that hovering over him, so I waited. 

Here Doctor Arnold checked his words abruptly, and flung 
himself into a seat with hands upon his forehead, as though it 
ached with the night's watching. 

“ If I had not seen this thing myself, Arnold, I should believe 
you had had a dream, or were suffering from a delusion. 

“Why did you let this horror into the house was Doctor 
Arnold's answer. “ I beg your pardon, Olver. You knew no- 
thing of this strange story. Mary oug*^it to have told you, and 
warned you that the apparition that haunts Trame comes in the 
shape of a hand craving admittance. Now we must be silent 
over the whole matter, or every servant will leave the house." 

“ They will hear nothing from me," returned Harold, “ for I 
am leaving immediately for London." 

“ I am sorry for that. I can’t say I shall like being here 
alone ; but I cannot desert Mr. Irrian till Mary returns. I shall 
send a messenger to her to-day to beg her to come back at once." 

“ A young girl is scarcely a fit person to bear the terrors of the 
supernatural, if this thing is beyond the pale of nature," said 
Harold. “ Cannot you write to Mr. Irrian’s son ?" 

“ Do you suppose he has left an address ? Can I send a letter 
on the winds after him ? " 

“ The Irrians seem to be an unaccountable race," remarked 
Harold, “ You know them, I presume, better than I do." 

“ Not young Irrian ! " 

“ No — but his father. What is he like ? " asked Harold, with 
pardonable curiosity. 

“ He is thoroughly a gentleman," said Doctor Arnold — “ a man 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


353 


of wide benevolence and incapable of practising any deception. 
I tell you this because you appear to doubt the character of this 
visitation. There is no charlatanism or trickery about it, I 
assure you. And Mr. Irrian is not proud of the family ghost; 
it is a matter on which he is most reticent.” 

“What is the history of the ghost — do you knowT asked 
Harold. 

“It is a family secret, and the little I know of it I am not 
at liberty to divulge. I heard it from Mr. Irrian last night. 
Olver, as a medical man, I am used to strange things. I can 
look without shrinking into the depths of nature, but this passes 
the bounds of nature — it comes from the other side, and I feel 
stunned and bewildered.” 

As the Doctor spoke a spasm of pain passed over his face ; it 
bore the look of a man whose spirit had been shaken within him 
either by some terrible history or some dreadful sight. 

“ I feel no surprise now,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “ at 
young Irrian’s departure. I believe this infernal thing — Olver, 
it is infernal — has driven him away.” 

“ Surely, if the apparition bodes evil, it was not a time to 
desert his post !” Harold answered coldly. “ He had other rea- 
sons for flight.” 

“ Perhaps so and Doctor Arnold gave Harold one keen 
glance, then turned away abruptly. “lam thinking of flight 
mys|lf,” he said. “ I have the key of Mr. Irrian’s door here” — 
he t<)dched his breast pocket. “ But, if that hand haunts me, 
how do I know that I shall not do its bidding and let it carry 
out its horrible desire.” 

“ Why ? What could happen if the door was opened ?” de- 
manded Harold. “ You cannot suppose anything dreadful would 
occur through so simple an act.” 

“ Death would happen. Mr. Irrian would follow his son, and 
die. Yes ; nothing could save him — he feels that. Good-bye ! 
I cannot talk to you, Olver. I am unhinged, and may say 
things for which I should be sorry. Mr. Irrian is aware of your 
intention to leave ; he does not press you to stay. A haunted 
house is not a pleasant abode. A carriage will await you at any 
hour you tix, and your host bids you good speed and a pleasant 
journey.” 

“ One word more,” said Harold. “ If it be possible, do not tell 
Mr. Irrian that my hand was the one to give admittance to that 

w 


354 


FROM TUB OTHER SIDE. 


creature, or thing or ghost, or whatever it may be. I owe him 
much. I am sorry to be the person to do him harm.” 

“Do not trouble yourself; it would have entered somehow — it 
always does. Once more good-bye.” 

He wrung Harold’s hand and hurried away. 

Through the long journey to London, through the whirr of 
wheels, the cloud of dust or the downpour of rain that the day 
or the night brought upon the road, the rush of the waterfall, 
the time-stained towers of Trame and the vision of the pale 
hand haunted Harold’s memory with a persistent foreboding of 
evil to come. 

At his rooms he awaited Estrild’s promised summons to Lan- 
garth with a sickening impatience of the heart that grew in 
strength day by day, like the burning of a fever. 


CHAPTER XLYIII. 

A ship labouring in a heavy sea, and in her best cabin her 
Captain dying miserably of his wound. Estrild stood by his 
berth ; she wiped the moisture from his forehead and laid her cool 
hand upon it. He looked up at her with dying eyes full of re- 
morse and pain. 

“You are very good to me — too good — I don’t deserve it from 
you. The storm is well-nigh spent. If Daniel can leave the 
deck, I should like to see him. I have something on my mind. 
I will tell it to him — it is not fit for your ears. Pray for me the 
while. It may be heaven will bear a prayer from innocent lips, 
even for such a lost wretch as I am. Will you touch my hand 
and say good-bye ? No — not my right hand ; it has something 
on it that I am always looking at. I see it even in dark- 
ness.’* 

Pie held his left hand towards her feebly ; she took it, with 
tears springing to her eyes, and pressed it gently. 

“ If I can be sorry for you,” she said, in her soft voice, “ if I 
can be pitiful, do you not feel that the God of infinite mercy 
and love will show you pity ? ” 

“ It is such as you who feel that,” said the man. “ It is too 
late for me to think of such things. Fetch Daniel ; my strength 
is going. I can’t thank you ; but I feel your touch upon my hand 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


355 


is worth more than I can speak of — it gives me hope somehow. 
Yes, I’ll try to believe there’s forgiveness on the other side when 
I’ve crossed over. Don’t come again — don’t see me die — it is 
not a sight for your young eyes.” 

Feebly yet feverishly, he raised his head slightly and watched 
her to the cabin door ; then, when she was gone, he sank back 
with a heavy sigh. 

“ She has tended me like an angel ; and I was paid to drown 
her, and she knows it. Then there must be something in what 
she says — yes, all goodness is forgiving.” 

When Daniel came to him, his eyes were closed, and he open- 
ed them unwillingly, with tiie old shrinking furtive look in them, 
letting the lids fall again quickly, as if fearing to meet the gaze 
of an honest man. 

“ You have something on your mind, I hear. Out with it 
quickly, man, and don’t fear to speak ; nothing in the world can 
hurt you now ! I know you can’t show a clean log ; but there 
-—you are bound for a port where maybe when logs are over- 
hauled, allowances are made for folks who sail without a 
chart. ” 

‘‘ It’s all dark,” returned Sinclair I see only my sins and 
sorrows, I feel only my pain. If there is anything beyond, it 
dosen’t touch me. There’s no light — no light ! Fetch pen and 
paper and take down my words. I’d die silent, only the young 
lady has tried to do me good.” 

Daniel fetched writing-materials and sat by him, as brokenly, 
with many painful struggles for breath, he spoke his last con- 
fession, 

“ I, Richard Johnson, alias Sinclair, wish to own that I die 
justly by a woman’s handj because a woman’s blood is on my 
hand. I forgive my wife my death. I confess that she and I 
agreed to wreck this ship the Venture, We were well paid — my 
wife has the money with her.” 

“ It will do her no good,” broke in Daniel “Glass beads 
might save her life — gold won’t.” 

“ Let her be,” said Sinclair, as a shadow stole over his face. 
“Write on quickly. I was to scuttle this ship and let the young 
lady drown ; but I was to save as many of the crew as would 
come with me ; and nothing was to be done till the young gentle- 
man who was to sail with us was dead. The doctors had told 
his father he could only live a week or two, ‘ And so,’ he said 


356 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


to me, * I want the young fellow to be happy while his life lasts. 
Let him have his dream out ; when he is gone, let the Venture 
and his bride sink down to the depths after him.’ I should have 
been shocked at this, but my wife laughed, and so I took it 
lightly too. But, when the young lady came aboard, Mr. Vicat 
whispered to me, as a secret, that his son was dead, and we 
might hasten matters, he said, as soon as we had passed Madeira.” 

“Dead! Was his son dead?” said Daniel. “ And he knew 
that when he brought his niece on board this ship to drown her ?’* 

“Yes, he knew it — he told me of it.” 

“ And do you know,” asked Daniel, “ that the dear young 
lady took this voyage and gave into his plans only in the hope 
of saving his poor son’s life ? ” 

“ I never heard that.” 

“ Ah, Mr. Yicat is a worse villain than you,” resumed Daniel ; 
“ and 1 hope some remorse seized him when he found his daugh- 
ter was doomed to die with his niece 1 You didn’t know Carrie 
Hyde was his daughter ? No ? Well, you know it now. Go 
on — I’m waiting for the rest of your story. You are past talk- 
ing to.” 

Yes, past all things — caring nothing now for contempt, or even 
for pity or love ; hoping nothing, fearing nothing, and yet having 
u dim awakening conscience which would fain make poor amends 
by confession before sinking into the gulf of darkness. 

“You know the rest, and how our schemes failed. The very 
man whom I ordered to scuttle the ship was your man, and lied 
when he told me he had obeyed orders.” 

“ He had obeyed my orders. Just you put my name to this 
document, else it’s worth nothing in law.” 

“Wait — I’ve more to say. Give me a drink ; my strength is 
spent,” 

Daniel’s pity grew on him as he helped the man, and his voice 
involuntarily took a softer tone. 

“ Now, mate, let us finish this yarn if we can.” 

“You came to our den two years ago — you dragged away a 
man called Trevel. Where is he ?” 

“ Dead,” said Daniel — “ on board the ship where a press-gang 
took hill] and me and the gentleman who was with him.” 

“ The gentleman, they said, was drowned.” 

“ Like enough. Go on, man ; you are losing time.” 


FROM TUE OTHER SIDE. 


357 


recognised you days back. It’s through you Tm here. If 
you hadn’t dragged away Trevel, I should have escaped from that 
den, and broke away from the woman who 

‘‘ There — don’t talk of that — best not.’' 

“No ; you are right. Trevel and I were going up North ; he 
had a secret to sell to a rich gentleman. His son was aboard the 
Alert, and there he shot the brother of the young lady here. I 
know now he was her brother, though, when Trevel talked of 
him, I didn’t even ask his name.” 

“What’s the name of the man that murdered him?” &qid 
Daniel, pausing, pen in hand his face set and stern. 

“Ah, that’s past me to tell ! Trevel kept that secret.” 

“Didn’t he shoot Mr. Carbonellis himself?” 

“No. Trevel’s share in it was an accideat ; lie swore thai to 
me, and he was too frightened not to tell the truth.” 

“ Well, let’s hear his story,” said Daniel impatiently. 

“ He said the gentleman was very young, and he came aboard 
the Alert looking pale and scared. This was at Portsmouth, just 
afore the Captain sailed for some outlandish place down in Corn- 
wall— I can’t mind the name.” 

“I know the name. Go on, man, faster! What happened 
when Mr. Carbonellis came aboard ? 

“Alight was look for with some smuggling craft; but the 
Captain dreaded bloodshed ; he wanted to take the craft, not 
lives. So all the crew had particular orders not to fire a shot. 
Well, they bore down upon the smugglers in the night, and were 
coming to close quarters, when Trevel, who had a pistol in his 
hand, stumbled over a coil of rope — ^and that, he said, wouldn’t 
have happened only he was startled by a v/histle that came over 
the sea — a wild sort of cry, like the seals give in their caves on 
stormy nights, so he told me — and, at the minute he was 
recovering from his fall, he swore that the young gentleman, 
who was standing by him, put a hand cold as ice over his hand 
and fired his pistol straight into Mr. Carbonellis’s breast. He 
fell dead instantly ; and then Trevel, in the confusion, jumped 
overboard, for he thought he should be the one blamed, because 
the pistol was his, and he should have no chance of having his 
word took against a gentleman’s ; but, as I hope for mercy, he 
swore to me that he never touched the trigger of his pistol. 
That young man’s hand, he said, was cold as death and strong 
SIS iron, and he it was that shot Mr. Carbonellis. Well, Trevel 


358 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


stopped in hiding till he heard of the wreck of the Alert ; then 
he determined to go up North and make the father of this young 
gentleman pay him well for \eeping quiet. He knew he must 
keep silent now, because he saw he’d done wrong to jump over- 
board ; he ought to have spoke the truth at the very first. 
But that strange wild whistle, he said, had took all strength and 
heart out of him, and knowing the young fellow to be the Captain’s 
relative made him the more afraid to speak. Why the lad — he 
was but a lad — had such a grudge against Mr. Carbonellis that 
he should kill him he couldn’t guess. I’ve no more to say ; and 
I shouldn’t have told this, only the young lady has been good 
to me, full of forgiveness and kindness, and I thought she’d like 
to know the truth about her brother ; and whether she’ll forgive 
the lad that killed him or whether she’ll bring him under the 
law is for her to judge, not me. Only I think she’s all for pity 
and pardon. God bless her ! Guide my hand, pilot — I can’t 
see. I’ll put my name to what you’ve writ down. Close up the 
paper — the tale is told.” 

He sank back, the story of his own life, its sins and sorrows, 
told, reckoned up, and closed for ever. 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

The funeral was over. Carrie and Estrild stood by Daniel’s 
side as he read the service, and, when the deep blue waters had 
covered the dead, both moved away with hearts full of awe. 

Later in the day Estrild took Daniel’s arm and paced the deck, 
talking of many things. 

“ Carrie and I owe our lives to you, Daniel.” 

“ And to Miss Armstrong and that rich friend of hers, who 
spent money like water.” 

“ I do not forget them, Daniel. I shrine their names in my 
memory, crowned with all that my gratitude can give them. I 
have one thing to say — it is that I forgive Mr. Yicat for Gil- 
bert s and for Carrie’s sake. She risked her life for me, and 
saves her father. Daniel, his crime is buried in the depths with 
that poor man — it is forgotten, it has passed into oblivion.” 

‘‘ As you please. Miss Estrild. He deserves hanging all the 
same ; but, since you wish it, no one shall hear of the matter 
from me.” 

“ I wish it. Look at Carrie — she and her lover are very 
happy. Do you think I could ever let mine be the hand to lay 
a burden 'of guilt and sorrow on their kind hearts t ” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


3'59 


“ I don’t think you could, miss. I don’t think you could hurt 
a sparrow, or kill even a sarpiiit.” 

“ Daniel, I have been thinking much of poor Gilbert— I pitied 
him greatly.” 

‘‘Yes, miss; Mr. Yicat knew pretty well how to work upon 
your pity — the scamp ! ” 

“ I was shocked by the news of his death — not grieved, I think, 
for I believe it was well for him to die. He had strange gifts 
and powers I could not comprehend ; he said they were natural, 
but they seemed to me out of nature. Daniel, this is not the 
first time I have been present at a funeral at sea. Through 
Gilbert’s aid — how or in what way I cannot tell you — I saw 
Trevel buried ; and when he was dying I heard his last words. 
He said, ‘ An accident, as I hope for mercy 1 ’ ” 

“ He did say that, miss, or words meaning that ; but that you 
heard them I can scarce believe, though I don’t deny there’s 
things on airth past our ken. I’ve seen myself a sight that no 
money would tempt me to see again.” 

“ I want to tell you, Daniel, that, since I know for certain the 
words Trevel uttered were true only as far as he was concerned, I 
have felt happier about my brother s death. I shall break no 
promise in marrying Mr. Giver now.” 

“No, my dear,” said Daniel, patting her fair delicate hand 
with his rough brown one. “ It’s all fair sailing for you now, 
and a safe port near to anchor in for life.” 

“ Daniel,. one word more. I do not know the name of the 
man who killed Tristram — I wish never to know it. I have 
passed through dangers and sorrows, and my life has been given 
to me by a miracle ; then, in return, I lay my forgiveness on that 
man’s name, and I bury it down there in the sea — the deep 
waters from which you and Mary Armstrong have saved me. I 
cannot tell why, unless it be because he was her father’s friend, 
but I wish her to know what I have said — through you, Daniel 
— let her hear it from you.” 

“ She shall, miss.” 

“ I take your promise ; we will never speak of this again. 
What land shall we see first, DanieH” 

“ The Lizard Point, miss ; and then I steer straight for Lan- 
garth.” 


360 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

It was sweet to be at home again, to see the old familiar 
places loved from childhood — sweeter still to hear the welcome 
given by the kindly people, and sweetest of all to see again the 
face of Pleasance and feel once more the peace and calm of her 
loving presence. But there was a joy to come above all these — 
the joy of happy love. Harold would soon be on his way to 
Langarth. 

With a beating heart Estrild counted the days and hours, and 
every morning’s sun brought a softer rose-flush to her cheeks, a 
clearer brightness to her eyes, tinting her beauty with ethereal 
touch that made it half divine — for the painter’s hand was the 
hand of love. 

Certainly she had never been so beautiful as now, when the 
sea-voyage had restored health to mind and body ; and, stronger 
in spirit than of yore, she trod her own halls in safety, all 
dangers past, and the hope of life and love and joy opening be- 
fore her like a long vista filled with light and spread with 
flowers. 

How shall pen describe her home-coming — the joy, the wonder, 
the delight, the kindly greeting from a hundred voices, the out- 
stretched hands, the brightening eyes shining half with tears, 
half with joy, the exclamations and the cheers when the crowd 
upon the sands, watching the good ship the Venture^ suddenly 
saw Estrild’s bright face upon the deck, and Daniel by her side, 
waving a greeting with hand and cap lifted above his head ? 

Then the cheer burst forth that shook all hearts with an elec- 
tric bound, and as the enthusiasm spread, people on the heights 
caught up the echo, and cheered and cheered again. 

When the Venturers boat touched the beach, fifty hands seized 
the gunwale with eager grasp, and thus, as it were, Estrild was 
floated in upon the people’s hearts amid a thousand cries of 

j<>y- 

They gave her the welcome of a queen, and she held out both 
her hands with tears upon her cheeks, and could not speak to 
thank them. 

As for Daniel, the whole crowd would have hugged him with 
its five hundred arms, had such an embrace been possible ; and 
failing this, his hand was seized and shaken till he was fain to cry 
for quarter. 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


361 


** Why, DanU — old Dan’l — come back alive and well I Why, 
Dan’l, dash my eyes, but I’m blessed if it don’t do ’em good to 
see ’ee again on Cornish ground ! ” 

Words like these were said a hundred times, while Michael 
stood with hand upon his uncle’s shoulder, able only with that 
silent touch to speak the fullness of his heart. 

“And Joe, my son — have ’ee heard ought of Joe since I’ve 
been gone *?” asked Daniel, throwing his arm round his neck with 
kindly hug, and thus relieving himself somewhat of the friendly 
electricity rushing through his veins which would fain have made 
him hug all the surging crowd. 

“Joe is well,” said Michael; “and he it getting on fine, sure 
enough. I’ve a letter from ’un in my pocket ; you shall read ’un 
by-and-by. I can’t tell ’ee nothin’ now. I be chocked up full 
with joy ; I can’t spaik ; my heart is aching with glory. Halle- 
lujah, amen ! ” — and Michael threw his hat into the air, then 
rushed into a big wave to recover it, for it had fallen into the 
sea, and, coming back, was able to wipe his wet cheeks and say 
it was only sea-water on them. 

Carrie stood by and saw all this, and wondered at it a little, 
being used only to London ways, where folks, being accustomed 
to surprises, fireworks, and princes, do not heed them much, but 
take them in a quiet business way more to her mind than all this 
enthusiasm. But, when her own turn came to be cheered and 
admired, she was forced to confess it was rather pleasant. It 
came about quite easily through Daniel, who at the Carbonellis 
Arms that night told her story and Tom’s to a listening crowd ; 
and forthwith, whether she would or no, she found herself a 
heroine, and she and Tom were loooked on as models for all true 
lovers. 

So, in the morning, when she went to the little church-town of 
Langarth, she found herself famous ; and the men looked at her, 
and the women looked at Tom, and the children brought her 
flowers, and stared in her face with big round eyes ; and some of 
the boys said timidly — 

“ Father say you are a real heroine ; you stood by the young 
lady, even when you thought you’d drown for it.” 

And the little girls took Tom’s hand, and, with the boldness of 
girls, asked if it was true that he was a brave sweetheart and 
had gone to sea for the pretty lady’s sake. 


69 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ And mother says there^s few sweethearts nowadays like you 
to risk their lives for love. And what’s love ? ” the little ones 
asked, and ran laughing away, unanswered. 

In the evening when work was over, the people; thinking they 
had not said enough, came in a crowd to Langarth, and asked to 
see Carrie and Tom. 

So Pleasance and Estrild made them stand out upon the bal- 
cony outside her windows, and on appearing they were cheered 
as though they were a royal bride and bridegroom. Then 
Michael, coming forward from the crowd, made a little speech, 
declaring, if Tom was not such a real right-down good fellow, 
the Cornishmen, one and all, would dispute his right to Carrie, 
for they were in love with her themselves. But, since he was 
brave and she was brave, they deserved each other. 

“And we thank ’ee with aal our hearts for what you’ve done,” 
concluded Michael. “ And one and all w^e wish ’ee joy, and long 
life, and many children good as yourselves ! ” 

Then the cheers rang out again, and Carrie laughed with tears 
streaming fast upon her face, and was fain forced to run away 
and throw herself weeping into Estrild’s arms. 

“ Hear am I,” she sobbed forth, “ crying for joy, and made a 
heroine of when I don’t deserve it — and poor mother in such 
sorrow at home ! Mother is the true heroine ; but she’s old, and 
she isn’t in love, so the name won’t fit her, you see ! Oh, dear, 
how foolish everything is ! ” 

So Carrie said ; and yet her eyes were shining with happy 
tears, for, although her heart was heavy for all the grief at 
home, of which she had heard from Pleasance, yet she knew she 
could bring comfort to her mother by her helpful presence, and 
she felt that what she had done for Estrild had gained forgive- 
ness for her father. 

And so the sun went down on the second day of their home- 
coming with that mingling of joy and sorrow that all days bring, 
and Estrild said to Pleasance — 

“ To-morrow Harold will have my letter — surely he will start 
at once ! Oh, I hope he will not delay his coming ! ” 

“ My dear, why should he delay his journey ? Of course he 
will be here as quickly as the mail can bring him.” 

“ Will he ? ” asked Estrild wistfully. “ Oh, I fear s'omething 
may happen to detain him ! I am afraid of I know not what.” 

“ You are afraid of your own joy,” Pleasance answered ; “ you 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


863 


have passed through dangers and anxiety, and now that peace 
has come it startles you.^^ 

“ But I am not at peace, Pleasance ; I am full of gloomy 
fears.” 

Pleasance smiled a little sadly. 

“ There crops out the Carbonellis temperament,” she said, 
“ which sea and storm cannot cure or change. It is the un- 
wonted calm around you after the tempest which fills you with 
apprehension.” 

“Is it not the calm before the storm which is always full of 
dread ? You may think it a mere fancy, Pleasance, but it is 
true that amid all the dangers I have passed I never felt so fear- 
ful as I do now.” 

At that moment Carrie entered, her bright face lighted up 
by a smile. 

“ What a qu er superstitious old man Prior is !” she exclaimed. 
“ I left him scaring Tom with the story of the Black Bider who 
brings death to Langarth. It sounds real, but of course it can’t 
be true ; and I came away lest I should shock him with my dis- 
belief.” 

Estrild flushed painfully, and Pleasance made a sign to Carrie 
to be silent, but she did not see it. 

“ Londoner as I am,” she continued, “ I still have a touch of 
sympathy with these old faiths, even if I laugh at them ; but I 
should never permit them to influence me gloomily.” 

“ That would depend upon your experience of them,” said 
Pleasance. 

Carrie laughed. 

“ Oh, I have never seen a ghost,” she answered, “ though my 
mo,ther has ! The old Crusader, you know, paid her a visit — as 
she declared. Of course it was, in fact, a ghost clothed in flesh, 
and in garments of a good cut — unless the whole thing was a 
dream, as I have sometimes thought it was ; in which case 1 
should confess that there was a strange coincidence ))etween the 
subject of her dream and the terrible event that occurred here.” 

“ Amid the million dreams that visit half-sleeping brains, it 
would be singular indeed if a few had not a touch of truth in 
them,” observed Pleasance. 

Estrild turned from the window where she had been standing, 
and laid her hand on her cousin’s arm. 


364 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ You say that for my sake, Pleasance, but you know well 
that human reasoning cannot touch some mysteries.^^ 

‘‘Then we will leave them untouched, my dear. Let us go 
and see Daniel He is the healthiest man alive — his mind is 
sound and clear as a ray of sunlight; he will do us good.” 

“ He is a wonderful man for dreams, for all that,” said Carrie, 
still in a laughing tone. “ I liked his stories, for I enjoy a good 
mystery with a touch of the awful in it, though I never make 
myself miserable over things not quite clear to my own stupid 
head.” 

“ Carrie, you are out of tune with me to-day,” Estrild 
said abruptly. “ Pleasance, I will dress, and meet you on the 
lawn.” 

She left the room hurriedly, and in her own chamber knelt 
down to pray. The foreboding of danger at Langarth which had 
oppressed her spirit when she wrote to Harold at Madeira had 
come upon her now with a new and darker force. In vain she 
wrestled against it, telling herself that all was well with her— 
that joy, hope, love were waiting to crown her life ; in vain she 
reasoned that perchance the fever of happiness that had touched 
her veins in her home-coming li ^l brought a reaction of despond- 
ency ; the inward voice of warning still uttered its dread whisper, 
and would not be stilled either by her sorrow or joy — for both 
these were with her, and her heart was troubled in turn by each 
The old familiar scenes loved from childhood, the tender memories 
rising like a cloud by every tree and nook, every turret and 
shadow of dear Langarth, had brought back recollections of 
Tristram that like a tightening chain wrung her heart with all 
the piteous pain of love and loss. 

But Harold was coming to her, and the thought of his presence 
was as a warm wave, a glow of sunshine, rushing up to the very 
lips, tilling every vein with life ; and she began to cling now 
almost deliriously to the hope of his coming. One touch of his 
hand, and this cloud of gloom, this foreboding of some approach- 
ing horror, would flee avvay for ever ; the sense of succour, help, 
and safety through the stronger soul grew upon her ; and, when 
she rose from her knees, she stretched her arms out long- 
ingly towards the spirit of her lover as though to draw him 
towards her by some invisible force tliat sent an inarticulate cry 
through the distance that divided them. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


366 


“ What have I done ? ” asked Carrie, turning to pleasance as 
Estrild quitted the room. 

“ My dear, you have forgotten that beyond your light words 
Estrild hears her brother's voice ; and, in spite of all its comfort, 
her return home has brought back to her some of the old horror^ 
that mingles with all the recollections that naturally crowd about 
her now ; so she could ill hear the tone in which you spoke of 
things so real to her, though perhaps unreal to you.^^ 

‘‘ You mean the Langarth superstitions ? 

“ Yes,’’ said Pleasance uneasily ; “ and it is not all a supersti- 
tion. The Black Rider, as the people call him, came here on the 
night of Tristram’s death, as he always couies when a Carbonellis 
dies.” 

‘‘You too — do you believe in that ? ” exclaimed Carrie. 

“ Who has such cause to believe it as I have ? ” returned 
Pleasance. “ The dread of that black messenger — whether man 
or demon-— has wrecked my life.” 

The sorrowful lines on her fair face, the deep shadow of grief 
in her dark eyes broke clearly now upon Carrie’s mental vision, 
and checked her own speech. 

“I can understand,” continued Pleasance, “how impossible it 
is for you, who have not seen our sorrow, to enter into our feel- 
ings. How can I describe to you the pain and horror of that 
dreadful morning when Tristram was borne home dead — he who 
had gone forth in the evening full of life and strength ? ” 

She tried to steady her voice, but stopped, and with shaking 
lips left her words unuttered. 

“ Yet Estrild has been greatly comforted since she has known 
the manner of his death through the confession of the man Sin- 
clair,” said Carrie. 

“ I have not dared to ask her for the detaiis, but I should like 
to hear them,” said Pleasance, recovering her calm. 

Carrie gave them, condensing the wretched Captain’s state- 
ment, but leaving out nothing of importance. To her surprise 
Pleasance listened in a sort of a pathy, with face growing gray 
and pale ; and, when the tale was finished, she rose with a deep 
sigh of pain. 

“ It is only the old story that I have heard so many times 
before,” she said wearily — “ always the hand of iron that closes 
on the hand of flesh; and that hand, unwilling though it may be, 
takes the life demanded, and a Carbonellis falls. What if it be 


366 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


through a sword in the hand of a friend or a pistol in the grasp 
of a stranger? It is ever the unseen hand with clutch of steel 
which deals the blow of death.” 

Carrie’s face was full of protest, but she did not venture on 
words of disbelief. 

“Estrild is waiting in the garden, and beckoning to you,” she 
said, in a dry tona 


CHAPTEE L. 

A man, trevel-strained and weary, rushed up the staircase 
at Harold’s chambers, entered his room abruptly with hurried 
mien, and flung himself into a chair as if breathless with his own 
speed. 

“ Doctor Arnold ! ” exclaimed Harold in amazement. “Why 
have you left Trame ? What has happened ? ” 

“ He has escaped — he is gone ! ” returned the Doctor in a low 
gasping voice. “ I am in a frenzied state of anxiety. I feel 
in a manner responsible for all that may happen. I had charge 
of him. I ought to have known he was not sane.” 

Harold gazed at him in wonder. 

“ Of wkom are you speaking ? You cannot mean Mr. Irrian ?” 

“Yes, yes ; Mr. Irrian. He has fled — he has gone in search 
of his son. His mind is unhinged by that young man’s strange 
conduct, and he has left home in a mad way to seek for him. 
You will remember this is what he did on the occasion of his 
son’s first flight ; and it will end in the same way — he will have 
a dangerous illness.” 

“ Explain — do explain what has occurred,” said Harold im- 
patiently. 

“ Give me a glass of wine,” returned the Doctor. “ I am 
thoroughly exhausted ” Harold gave it, and, as the Doctor sat 
the glass down empty, he drew his chair to the table and rested 
his head for a moment on his hands. “ I am trying to think,” 
he said, “ how it happened. I want to tell you, but how can I 
explain what is totally inexplicable?” 

Harold made no reply ; he seemed to need all his breath and 
strength to hold down his impatience. 

“ After you left us,” continued Doctor Arnold, “ things went 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


367 


quietly for a day or two. But during this time, however, I saw 
but little of Mr. Irrian. He wrote me a note in which he said 
solitude and perfect quiet were best for him, as by these 
means he recovered his nerve sooner. I was quite of his opinion, 
so I disti-Arbed him as little as was consonant with my duty as 
his medical attendant. At the rare times when I entered his 
room he always appeared tranquil, and I often found him sleep- 
ing. Only once, on awaking suddenly, his words struck me as 
strange. 

‘ j?ake your hand from my forehead,^ he said. ‘ Let me 
rest.' 

“ * I am not touching you,' I answered. Then he looked up at 
me in a curious, searching, sad way. 

** * I have been dreaming,' he said. * Is there any news ? ' 

“ I thought he meant of his son, so I answered unwillingly — 

“ ‘ There are no letters.' 

“Then he looked at me as if he did "not understand my words ; 
and after a moment’s hesitation he repeated the word. 

“ ‘ Letters ? Oh, no ; I do not expect any ! The newspapers 
— where are they ? I want them ! ' 

“ I looked on his request as a good sign of returning health, 
so I answered cheerfully that he should have them every day. 

“ Olver, the look he gave me in reply haunts me now — there 
was something ghastly in it. I felt iny heart bound with a sud- 
den dreadful apprehension, and I laid my hand upon his wrist. 
He flung it off instantly, and started up with wild misery in his 
eyes ; then he threw himseef back into his seat like a man in 
despair, passing his hand across his forehead as if to thrust away 
some pain or pressure there. Then the thought struck me that, 
being shaken in nerve, he had imagined the hand that touched 
him was not mine, and I ventured to ask him if that strange 
vision had haunted him again. 

“ Olver, you will scarcely credit me when I tell you his 
answer. 

“ ‘ It was my own hand,' he said. ‘ You are all deceived ; the 
hand is mine.' " 

“Did he say that?" exclaimed Harold. “Then it was Mr. 
Irrian at the window — it was his hand I saw on the balustrade 
of the staircase ?" 

“Was it ? " returned Doctor Arnold. “ I have tried to wswer 
that question to myself, but I cannot." 


368 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ But Mr. Irrian confessed it. You tell me it was his own 
assertion ? persisted Harold. 

‘‘Yes,” said the other slowly ; “but how he could deceive my 
senses, and make his hand appear in one room while he spoke to 
me from the other, is more than 1 can explain.” 

“ l^ever mind explanations ; go on, I entreat you ! ” rejoined 
Harold impatiently. 

“ Well, he held out his thin hand in an odd way, smiling as 
he spoke, while his eyes belied his lips. They were distended in 
the sort of gaze into which a deadly serpent might fascinate a 
man, and for a moment he appeared to have no power to remove 
them from the contemplation of his own ghostly hand. 

‘* ‘ You are dreaming still, Mr. Irrian,^ I said to him gently, in 
a soothing tone. ‘ Will you try to sleep again?’ He caught at 
the suggestion eagerly, and, leaning back on the cushion I adjusted 
for him, he fell soon into a quiet slumber. After watching him 
for a minute or two, in order to feel assured he was sleeping com- 
fortably, I stole away as noiselessly as I could. Giver, that was 
the last time I saw him ! ” 

Harold stared at him incredulously ; his haggard looks, his 
weary figure leaning dejectedly over the arm of his chair, all 
struck him as proofs of a fatigue too intense for healthy speech. 
Surely now he was not talking coherently ! 

“ I perceive you scarcely believe me,” continued Doctor 
Arnold, rousing himself ; “ but I assure you I am telling you 
the sober truth. I have not seen Mr. Irrian again, though I 
have seen his hand, or the thing that haunts Trame, whatever it 
is.” 

“ My dear Arnold, you are over-fatigued ; you are talking at 
random.” 

“ I warned you that my statements would appear incredible. 
Let me explain what happened. I went for a ride, and on my 
return betook myself as usual to the sitting room which, as you 
know, adjoins Mr. Irrian’s chamber. All the newspapers, which 
had by my order been placed on the table, were gone. I was 
glad of this ; to care for the news of the world outside oneself is 
a healthy sign ; so, feeling reassured, and knowing how much my 
patient disliked being disturbed, I went down to the library, 
where I dined and afterwards took a quiet pipe. I smoked 
rather longer than usual, for I felt strangely supine, unwilling to 
move — in fact there was a sort of lethargy over me, from which 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


369 


I roused myself with difficulty. I hesitated an instant at the 
door of Mr. Irrian’s sitting room, then decided to go in, knock at 
his own door, and wish him good night. 

Good night to those that can rest,' he answered. ‘Wait 
for me a moment. I have something to tell you.' 

“ I sat down to wait, but he was long in coming, and that 
curious stupor fell over me again ; but whether I slept or not I 
cannot tell you. At all events to my own senses I seemed to be 
wide awake, when, by the light of the dying lamp, for it was 
nearly out, I saw a hand just in front of me, pointing per- 
emptorily to the closed window. You will remember, Olver, it 
opened on a little stone balcony, with steps leading to the gar- 
den, and by Mr. Irrian’s wish it had been securely fastened and 
locked, the key being in my possession. There was no mistaking 
now the wish expressed in his pointing hand that this window 
should be opened. I rose, a little dazed. I could see the curtain 
that hung before his door move. I could not see himself ; the 
hand was. near the curtain. I called out to him eagerly — almost 
angrily — ‘Mr. Irrian, why are you masquerading with me? Do 
you wish the window to be opened ? ' 

“ As I live, Olver, he answered me from within the room — 
‘ Yes, open it ; and wait for me in the yew-tree walk. I am 
coming quickly.' 

“ It was an odd request ; but I was used to Mr. Irrian’s odd 
ways, and I knew it was his haldt to walk at night in this place. 
But now I must make a strange confession. The compelling 
power of that ghostly hand of his was so great that, had his 
voice bidden me in tones of anguish to leave the window un- 
touched, I should not have listened to it — I should not have 
dared disobey that white ghostly hand. 

“I unbarred and unlocked the casement window with nervous 
haste, and, as I opened it, a gleam of moonlight flickered in, the 
lamp was quenched, the room was plunged in black darkness. I 
hurried down the stone stairs, I paced the yew-w«lk for an hour, 
but I never saw Mr. Irrian. The quiet of the night, the light of 
the soft stars and moon, which threw a pale glimmer through the 
4a rk leaves of the yew-trees, calmed the turmoil of my thoughts. 
1 came to myself suddenly, like a man walking from, abnormal 
sleep. I felt as though the night had passed in a dream, and all 
that I had seen, felt, and heard was unreal. In this mood I 
hastened back to the house. An intense quiet reigned every- 


370 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


where ; not a footfall, not a sound disturbed the 
silence. After listening intently for a moment, and calling soft- 
ly to Mr. Irriaii, I grew convinced that he was sleeping. I 
closed the window with a quiet hand, then went to my own 
room, flung myself upon the bed, and fell into a profound sleep. 

“ I awoke to the sound of a hurried knocking ; then the man 
who attended on Mr. Irrian came to my bedside with white 
frightened face ; a group of other scared servants stood at the 
door. His master was gone — none knew how, none knew 
whither. Could I tell him what orders were left ? 

“ I could tell him nothing ; I could only listen and disbelieve 
until I descended to Mr. Irrian’s rooms and found them empty. 

“ On his table lay a note addressed to me, which explained the 
wild motive which had actuated him. 

“ Here is the letter ! Read it, Olver, yourself.” 

Harold took the slip of paper which the Doctor extracted from 
his pocket-book, and read the one line it contained. 

“ I am going in search of my son. I need his help.’ 

“ He needs it indeed,” said Harold, as with a sad look he 
handed the paper back. ‘‘ There is an intense pathos in these 
few words which touch one’s heart. His son is cruel indeed.” 

For a moment Doctor Arnold was silent ; then he said — 

‘‘ Have you received any news of young Irrian 

“None. And I hope we shall not meet again.” 

“Wait — do not judge hastily. The things unseen are greater 
than the things seen. Outwardly his conduct looks cruel, but it 
may not be really so. There, I will say no more.” 

“ Where is Mary asked Harold. 

“ Still at Carlisle. 1 have withheld this news from her in 
mercy. ” 

“But she has an extraordinary influence over Mr. Irrian,” 
observed Harold. “ Would it not be wise to send for her 

“ Yes — but hot until I And him. Can you give me no clue, 
no help? Do you know nothing of young Irrian’s haunts ?” 

“ Absolutely nothing. There is no Captain Armstrong now 
with whom he can take refuge. How many more lives, I wonder 
will be sacrificed to this young man’s melancholy and erratic 
moods ?” 

“ That is a far-reaching question indeed, Olver. This time I 
fear his father will be the sacrifice.” 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


371 


“ Why have you come to London asked Harold with sudden 
eagerness. “Have you traced Mr. Irrian thus farf' 

“ I must say both ‘ Yes ^ and ‘No * to that, because my in- 
telligence is so vague. I came mostly in the hope that you could 
assist me. You know Cumberland, as you call him, better than 
I do, and I thought you might be able to judge what his line of 
conduct would be — where, in fact, he would hide.^' 

“ My knowledge of him in India would only lead to the con- 
clusion that he was gone on some desperate adventure where he 
was likely to lose his life. But why trouble yourself about him ? 
Let him go where he will ; is is his father only whom you should 
strive to find.’' 

“ I can only find him by tracing the son. I have tracked 
Cumberland to London ; I am sure Mr. Irrian has followed his 
steps, thous:h I can no more trace them than I can the passing 
of a ghost." 

“ But how did Mr. Irrian get away from Trame 1 Surely you 
must know what road his carriage took 1" 

“ He had no carriage, no horse ; he must have left on foot, and 
hidden himself so completely — perhaps in the woods, perhaps by 
some disguise — that by the most searching inquiry I could gain 
no news of him. Now you can understand my anxiety, Olver, 
and the necessity I am under to find his son. Mr. Irrian may 
be dead or dying somewhere, unknown and untended. Can you 
— will you accompany me on my journey V* 

“ Where are you going asked Harold. 

“To Portsmouth. At the booking-of&ce of the Portsmouth 
mail I have discovered that young Irrian took a ticket some days 
ago.” 

“ Then he is gone to sea," said Harold, with thoughts rushing 
fast upon him of Cumberland's vovage in the Alert, and all that 
followed it. He grew pale, and strange thoughts, suspicions, 
fears, took a sudden hold upon his mind. “ I cannot go with 
you," he said resolutely. “ Every day, every hour I am hoping 
and expecting news that will hurry me at once to Cornwall" 

“ Then I must go alone, and instantly,'" returned the Doctor, 
rising with the unwillingness of a weary man. “ Stay, Olver-^ — 
your words have reminded me of something that concerns your 
interests greatly. Excuse my having forgotten it in my distress 
of mind. You will remember how nobly, how generously Mr. 
Irrian acted through Mary's agency, when he guessed Miss Car* 


372 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


bonellis’s life was endangered ? Well, I found this letter on the 
floor of his room, dropped perhaps in his haste, or most likely 
scarcely read or remembered in the anguish of his thoughts of 
his son. You perceive it is endorsed in pencil, * For Harold 
Olver.^ 

While Doctor Arnold was speaking, Harold had scanned the 
letter with eager eyes. It was from Lloyd’s office in London, 
and ran thus — 

“ Sir — In accordance with your request we beg to inform you 
that we have received news, signalled by telegraph, that a large 
ship answering to the description of the Venture has been seen 
safe off the Scilly Isles. This vessel was largely insured by the 
fraudulent bankrupt Mr. Vicat, and we had reason to believe 
foul play was intended ; we are glad therefore to be able to send 
you the above intelligence of her safety.’’ 

Harold put the letter down with a flush of joy on his face. 

“This is good news indeed,” he said; “and I shall start im- 
mediately for Langarth. I am sorry I cannot help you, Arnold, 
but you see it is impossible. I am all the more sorry because I 
owe my happiness to Mr. Irrian. Even this letts^^* reaches me 
through his thoughtful kindness. Doubtless he wrote to Lloyd’s 
for my sake.” 

“ Yes, yes, no doubt,” returned the Doctor hurriedly. He 
held out his hand ; and Harold grasped and retained it with a 
touch of self-reproach on his conscience. Mr. Irrian had done 
so much for him, and now in his haste to reach Estriid he was 
selfishly deserting him. 

His heart smote him, and for a moment he hesitated, but the 
recollection of Estrild’s letter, imploring him to meet her at 
Langarth, returned to him with sudden force, and he relinquish* 
ed the Doctor’s hand with the renewed conviction that he was 
acting rightly. 

“ Although I cannot accompany you, Arnold, I can aid you in 
one way — I can prosecute inquiries all along tlie road. You are 
going to Portsmouth ; I can travel by way of Bristol ; and, as I 
am not obliged to hurry forwards by the mail, I shall have many 
chances of getting at news of Mr. Irrian if he has wandered so 
far.” 

“ It is a good notion,” returned his friend. “ But with one 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


373 


fixed, mad idea, the poor man is certainly following his son. I 
hope— I believe I shall find him at Portsmouth. It was the 
place he visited during his first attack. Well, good-bye, Olver; 
you^ll do all you can, I know.^^ 

“ Stay one instant ! It is not worth while to go to that man 
Yicat and see if he has been there ? ” 

‘‘ Why should he do that ? asked the Doctor, half turning as 
he reached the door. 

“ Well, I scarcely know ; but, since he had a letter about the 
Venture only on the very day he left Trame, I fancied ” 

“ No ; you are wrong. His sol® thought is of his son; he will 
follow him only, and reach him in a bee-line if he can.” 

The Doctor waved his hand, and was gone. 

Harold stood a moment lost in thought, and troubled still by 
the sense of ingratitude that had stung his conscience. Striving 
to fling this oflf, he began to prepare for his journey ; but, while 
packing, the idea that Mr. Irrian might have gone to the Yicats* 
took fuller possession of him, 

“ ril go and see — at least I can do that for him. I have half 
an hour or so to spare,” he said, as he looked at his watch. 

So, in spite of his intense repugnance towards Mr. Yicat, he 
was soon driving fast to the mean house in the suburb where 
this unhappy man was drivelling out his days. 

A crowd of children, as usual, overflowed the passage and 
staircase. IJncouthly shy, and yet curious as wild animals, 
they peeped and peered at the visitor, and then rushed away 
with titters and whispers which by no means added to Harold’s 
patience as he stood waiting in the hall, where the rough servant 
had left him while she went to inform her mistress of his pres- 
ence. 

“Missus is very ill indeed, sir, and can’t see no one; she must 
be kept quiet, the doctor says. Perhaps you will see master ? ” 
said the girl, on returning. 

“There isn’t much sense in pa to-day,” observed one of the 
elder children. 

Harold beckoned to her, and she drew near him in jerks, amid 
the breathless curiosity of the others. 

“ Tell your mother I am sorry she is ill ; but I bring her good 
news — your sister will soon be home again,” 

“ Oh, she knows it ! He told her ; that’s what upset her— 
she’s been fainting and fainting ever since.” 


374 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ Who told her ? ” asked Harold eagerly. 

His question or his voice brought on a universal scare, and the 
whole crowd fled in a state of wild terror of shyness. 

“ I will see Mr. Vicat,’' said Harold, repressing his repugnance 
to the alternative as he best could. 

“ I am sorry the children is so rough and shy, sir,^^ said the 
maid apologetically. “ But their ma has skeered them rather.^’ 
At this point she found herself at the parlour door, so she stopped 
abruptly and opened it for Harold to enter. 

Mr. Vicat was sitting at the window in a state of radiant 
happiness. 

“ My daughter, Carrie, sir, will be here to welcome you very 
shortly. If you will look out of the window, you will see the 
exact angle at which she will turn the street corner.” 

Harold knew this was Mr. Vicat^s daily delusion ; yet, coupled 
with the child^s assertion, it strengthened his belief that, even if 
wandering in dementia seeking his son, Mr. Irrian in the gener- 
ous goodness of his heart had gathered sense suflacient to bring 
the forlorn family good news. 

“ Then you have been made aware of your daughter’s return 
through your visitor ? ” observed Harold tentatively. 

“Yes — through a visitor,” returned Mr. Vicat with pompous 
gravity. “ My wife saw him. Unfortunately she is too ill to 
take a journey.” 

“There is no necessity for that,” said Harold. “Your 
daughter will be taken care of, and will travel to vou safe- 
ly.” 

“ Yes ; she is coming up the street soon. There is no ques- 
tion of my daughter’s safety, sir. The Venture^ you see, was 
doomed, and my niece ” 

“ But your visitor has told you the Venture is saved, and your 
niece also ? ” 

The question struck an ugly chord in Mr. Vicat’s untuned 
mind. 

“ The plan was well devised, sir ; but people from the other 
world stepped in and ruined it. The deed of gift gave all to 
Gilbert. He died too soon. I should have hidden that and had 

the money if — if ” He put his hand to his forehead and 

stared about him vacantly. “ You have not met an undertaker, 
sir, have you V he asked abruptly. 

“ I have not had that pleasure,” said Harold, half smiling, 


FROM THR OTHER SIDE. 


375 


with mingled amusement and pity, though Mr. Vicat's refer- 
ences to the evil plot had naturally at first roused only his 
indignation. 

“ You are going ? ” observed Mr. Vicat, still with eyes staring 
at him vacantly. “ Then, if you meet an undertaker, you had 
better send him to — to — what is the place called ? — Langarth. 
Thank you ; yes — Langarth. The ancients had no undertakers, 
sir.'^ 

“ Perhaps not,” said Harold, still pitiful, and oppressed, he 
knew not why, by a vague misgiving. 

“ Ah, it was a pity — it was a neglect of a respectable calling ! 
Good-bye ! 1 expect Carrie any moment 1 ” 

He turned his face again to the window ; and Harold shut the 
door on him, and let himself out into the street silently. 


CHAPTER LI. 

“ She’s the purtiest schooner-yacht that ever skimmed the sea,” 
said Daniel, putting down his glass. “ Who’s aboard, Michael ? 
D’ye knaw \ ” 

“ I dun’oo’ mor’n the dead,” said Michael. “ I reckon ’tis 
some whisht traade or other, for they don’t leave a soul come 
ashore. They’ll be like Jonah’s gourd, you’ll see. They coined 
in a night ; and they’ll go in a night.” 

Well, and thee’st as poor-tempered as Jonah oover it, 
Michael, simmun to me.” 

“ Maybe 1 do feel a bit oogly,” acknowledged Michael. “ For 
I’d as lief have a stone thrawed at me as a bad word. Oogliness, 
my dear I Why, there’s oogliness en'^ugh aboard thic craft to 
sink her. Maybe Jonah hisself is there; and they won’t get no 
peace till he’s thrawed overboard.” 

So the}' thrawed bad words ooverboord for thee to catch V* 

“ Iss,” said Michael in a slow way, as if still pondering over 
an unaccountable fact. “I rowed out airly this mornin’ and 
axee ’em ef they wanted a pilot, or fresh mait, or baker’s traade. 
And a young fellow, with his hat cocked on one side, pert as a 
magpie, shouts out, ‘Sheer off, you fellow! We don’t want 
nauthin’!’ ‘Yes, you do, my son !’ says 1. ‘You want a civil 
tongue in your head ; and ef you come ashore, we’ll give ’ee a 


m 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Cornish hug and larn ’ee manners !* ‘ Go to the devil says he, 

mad as fire. ‘ No thank ’ee, my dear/ I answers quite perlite ; 
‘ I won’t step afore you. The road is you i s ; and you be making 
pretty good course along it too. A pleasant voyage to ’ee T I 
says. ‘ And good-bye !’ I heard langwidge coming arter me, 
uncle, I can tell ’ee, as I rowed away. ‘Twas hot enough to set 
the sea afire 'most.” 

‘‘Big words swell no sails,” said Daniel. “They northern 
seamen can carry a deal of swearin’ in their holds without sink- 
ing ; their ships be too good for that 1 What says the proverb — 

“ * A northern ship to keep my life ; 

But a western woman for my wife’ ?” 

“So thic craft be a North-country waun, uncle T said Michael. 
“But my mind misgives me she's in the Preventive sarvice now.” 

“ Whether your guess be true, I can’t say ; but I reckon she’ve 
never been in these waters before to-day.” 

“ Here be the Langarth ladies, uncle !” interposed Michael. 

Estrild came across the sands, looking so bright, so fresh, so 
beautiful, that Daniel, who had again lifted his glass, lowered it, 
and turned an absorbing gaze upon her approaching figure, with 
eyes that beamed with pleasure. 

“ Purtier than a picture, Michael,” he said, with satisfaction. 
“I reckon a fair woman on land and a sailing ship at sea be the 
two best things the airth can shaw.” 

“What are you spying at, Daniel T asked Pleasance, as she 
and Estrild drew near. 

Daniel pointed to the schooner lying in the roads, whose reef- 
ed sails were just catching red gleams from the setting sun. 

“ A suspicious craft, miss. I can't make her out. She should 
run for Falmouth afore the wind rises, since she don’t choose to 
put in at Langarth.” 

“ Before the wind rises ?” repeated Estrild. “ Why, Daniel, 
there is not a breath of wind stirring.” 

“There’ll be half a gale before nightfall, miss. Look at the 
sky ; 'tis full of fiery flakes, easier to read than book-larning.” 

“ But that pretty little ship would not be in any danger if a 
storm rose, Daniel, would she f ' 

“ Not if she held to her anchora” 

“And they have not anchored in a good place,” observed 
Pleasance, who had taken the glass from Daniel’s hand. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


877 


“ That^s it, miss ! They be strangers to this coast, that^s sar- 
tain.^’ 

And I hope they’ll keep strangers,” observed Michael. “ We 
don’t want no Jonahs to be thrawed up ashore at Langarth.” 

This remark led to questioning, and to a history of the morose 
reception given to Michael this morning. 

“And I say that ^ef folks lay to oh a friendly coast they 
shouldn’t fling stones at it,” observed Michael sententiously. 

Estrild smiled assent and passed on with Daniel ; but Pleas- 
ance lingered behind with Michael, and said anxiously — 

•“ I hope that is not a smuggling craft, Michaelf’ 

“ I’m afeard ’tis somethin’ wuss, miss. My mind misgives me 
— Tis a spy.” 

“ A spy repeated Pleasance. 

“ Well, miss, the Langarth folks have got a venture on the 
sea to-night ; and to run in under the bows of a strange schooner 
would be risky work. I wish I could warn ’em to keep ofl.” 

“And can’t that be done, Michael? asked Pleasance, her 
sympathies instantly awakened on the side of the free-traders. 

“ No message can reach the Curlew now. Twenty boats 
might go out and not find her ; she’s bound to come in to-night.” 

“And what then, Michael?” 

“ Why, ef we don’t get the cargo out of her afore daylight, we 
shall be most of us in prison afore nightfall to-morrow.” 

“ Oh, Michael, why have you made such a bad use of the good 
Curlew ? ” 

“ Bad use, miss ? ’Tis aunly fair traade, and goods honestly 
bought and paid for. But I reckon ’tis a poor chance of saving 
em we’ve got now. Auh, my dear, ’tis a whisht job — ’tis trans- 
portation for life to some of us, and starvation to wives and 
children ! There, we shall fight like men, that’s sartain ! ” 

The thought of bloodshed appalled Pleasance ; she grew pale, 
her hands and voice trembled. 

“Surely, Micnael, you are exaggerating the danger! That 
schooner is only a yacht ; she is not a Revenue cutter I ” 

“ Auh, eddn’t she ? ” said Michael, in the tone of a man per- 
fectly settled in his own opinion. “ She’s waun of the king’s 
ships disguised a bit yacht-fashion, that’s what she is I In 
coorse she eddn’t a cutter ; I never said she was ! But she’s a 
Preventive sarvice boat, and a good waun too 1 ” 

“ How can you be sure of that, Michael ? ” 


378 


FEOM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ As ef I didn’t kuaw the cut of the jib of they fellows ! ” re- 
turned Michael, looking towards the distant schooner with 
mingled contempt and defiance. “ Ef they wadn’t up to some 
sacret plot, why don’t ’em come ashore like other yachtrnen for 
fresh mait and garden stuff, and to coosy a bit ? Bless you, 
miss, a true yacht’s crew pulls ashore as soon as they sees land, 
wanting aal soorts of traade ; and they’re sure to tell what gentry 
is aboard, making believe to like the sea. Now these chaps 
aunly cry out, ‘ Sheer oflf 1 ’ ef you comes nigh ’em ; and they 
don’t come ashore or lev’ nobody come aboord. “ That’s a Pre- 
ventive trick I’ve seen afore to-day 1 Auh, I bain’t took in by 
innocent looks ! I reckon there’ll be a fight afore morning. 
Good evening, miss ! I must go around and warn our folks.” 

“ Stay, Michael ! Can nothing be done to prevent a fray 1 
Think of the misery that will come of it ! ” 

“ There’s aunly one thing — ef Miss Estrild will help us, we 
might manage to kep clear then of a fight.” 

“ Yes, yes. What can she do ? ” 

“ Oh, I dursn’t ask her, miss ; because, you see, she never have 
forgive nor forgot how Mr. Tristram died ! ” 

“ You want leave to hide the cargo in the cave ? ” said Pleas- 
ance hurriedly. 

Michael nodded, then gazed wistfully out to sea towards the 
strange schooner, which lay still as a painted ship, her masts 
standing out against the fiery sky in wonderful straight clear- 
ness. 

“ Agin’ darkness falls I reckon she’ll wish she’d chosen better 
moorings,” said Michael, with a grim pleasure. “The sea waient 
bide quiet much longer ; it’ll be a rough night and a dark waun. 
Aal the better too for we ! Now, do ’ee think Miss Estrild will 
stretch out a hand to save men’s lives to-night ? ” 

“ Michael, you are asking her to connive at and share in an 
illegal act 1 She will not do it.” 

“ Then there’ll be murder here afore mornin’,’^ said Michael, 
getting white and angry ; “ for we men have sworn that the 
Curlew and cargo sha’nt be seized while there’s life in us.” 

In the excitement under which both were speaking neither had 
noticed that Estrild and Daniel had turned back, and were now 
so close as to be within hearing of their words. Now, to the 
intense surprise of Pleasance, Estrild came forward with flushed 
cheeks and eyes shining with a forced eagerness ; and, laying one 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


S79 


soft white hand on Michaers arm, she pointed with the other to 
the little ship lying in the roads. 

Whether that ship holds friends or foes, I am resolved it 
shall bring no death to Langarth,’^ she said, in a low, firm voice, 
“ My brother lost his life through not standing by his own peo- 
ple. I dare not follow his example, though he was perhaps right, 
and though I am no more a friend of this wicked illegal trading 
than he was ; but I will grant you the use of the cave, or the 
park, or my house, or all that I possess rather than endanger one 
life at dear Langarth. Rather than that my home-coming — this 
time of joy — should be changed into one of mourning, I would 
die myself ! ” 

“ There now, cried Michael, with a glance of triumph at 
Pleasance, “didn’t I tell ’ee so? Miss Estrild have got the right 
sperit in her, like the ould Squire, who showed us a blind eye or 
gived us a helping hand many a time in the good ould days gone 
by — the Lord rest his soul for it ! ” he coBcluded piously. 

Meanwhile, Daniel by a sign had shown both Michael and 
Pleasance that during his walk with Estrild he had made a clean 
breast of the matter, and she was as fully aware as themselves of 
the danger threatening the C^irlew ; hence, when she came up to 
them, she was prepared to speak from her heart, though not her 
judgment. 

“Consider, Estrild, I entreat you,” said Pleasance, “that you 
will be acting against the law in what you do ! ” 

“ 1 have considered,” she answered feverishly. “ Remember 
what happened when Tristram helped the law. I may be wrong, 
or the law may be wrong — at all events it is right to make an 
effort to save lives. Come with me, Daniel ; I will go home 
through the caves, and then you can see w’here the cargo can best 
be stowed. No, Pleasance, I would rather you returned home by 
the cliff* — I know you hate caverns. Moreover, I do not wish 
you to appear as having any part in this illegal deed of 
mine.” 

She waved her hand to Pleasance and went down the beach 
with Daniel, and in a moment or two both had disappeared 
within the grim opening in the cliff* which led to the caves. 

Pleasance stood for a moment gazing wistfully down the long 
reach of white sand, now devoid of all life save the hovering 
flights of sea-birds, and then she turned to Michael with the 
shadow of unshed tears in her eyes. 


380 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


‘‘ If sorro’w comes of this deed, Michael, it will be through 
your sin, not hers.’^ 

“Then Til stan^ it,’’ said Michael contentedly. “I don’t 
reckon it no sin to save lives — lives of men with little children 
dingin’ to their hands for bread !” 

“ That’s your way of talking, Michael — that’s how you have 
persuaded Estrild to an act. of which she will repent,” returned 
Pleasance angrily. “ If really needed to save lives, why couldn’t 
you have stowed away your ill-gotten goods in the cavern with- 
out telling her 

“As ef we’d do anything so mean,” retorted Michael indig- 
nantly. “ And what would be the good of et, ef we couldn’t 
bving the carts to the graate rift in the park at the head-like of 
th?) cavern, and cart the kegs away saafe afore daybreak !” 

“ Oh, I understand now why you have pledged Estrild to help 
you ! Bnt the Preventive men may search the cave and cart 
away the kegs themselves from the beach.” 

“ Why, Miss Pleasance, what be ’ee thinking of ? That’s 
roadling talk, sure ’nough. Do ’em want to be drowned, they 
men ? They may be sarpints, but they baint fishes, to get 
through two fh<thr?m of sea-waetur.” 

“ Ah, I forgot that the spring-tides fill the cavern ! Yes, yes 
— I see your evil cargo will be safe enough till morning 1” 

“ Carts and houses on the beach at high tide !” continued 
Michael, amused aw the thought. “ Lord, they’d be swallowed 
up like the host of Pharoah.” 

By this time the two as they talked had reached the narrow 
path which zig-zagged up the face of the cliff ; and here both 
stopped and look seavvaids. 

The sun was setting in the waves, and flakes of his red light, 
dying in flame were wafted towards them on the crests of the 
swelling seas, which cast the light from them with melancholy 
sighs as they fell darkening on the sands. 

Thick clouds were rising in the south, speeding onwards to 
obscure the glory of the sun, but catching fire as they came and 
showing on their western edges jagged peaks and great rents all 
aflame. 

“ Good-bye, Michael,” said Pleasance, with a heavy sigh. “ The 
air is opressive to-night. I wish I had gone with Estrild.” 

“She’s safe enough with uncle Daniel. Good night, miss. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


381 


I’ve got a long round to make to the farmers to borry carts. 
There’s a pewer lot of ’em have goet money on this ventur’, miss.” 

‘‘ To their shame !” returned PJeasance, raising her voice, a.s 
winding up the steep path, she was now some distance above 
him. 

She stayed her steps a moment to say this, half turning again 
towards the sea. In doing this she espied a little boat drawn up 
high on the beach behind the rock which projected at this point 
where the path began, she pointed now to the spot, and made a 
sign to Michael to go around the sharp headland. He did so at 
the cost of a wetting from an inrushing wave which sent its salt 
spray so high up the cliff that it touched Pleasance’s face. 

“ What boat is it ? ” she called eagerly, 

Michael was examining it with a scrutinising eye, his face sat 
to unwonted hardness. 

’Tis a boat from the schooner, come to spy out the land ! ” 
he said angrily. 

Are you sure, Michael ? ” 

Her name is on the stern,” he answered — “ Elaine, Now, 
Miss Pleasance, you’ll own I wes right.” 

‘‘No, Michael, there’s no harm in boat or yacht ; it is you who 
fancy harm. ‘ Conscience makes cowards of us all ! ’ ” 

Rather pleased at the aptness of her quotation, Pleasance 
passed on, and was soon out of sight amid bushes and rocks. 

“ A woman must have the laest word,” said Michael to hims^lt 
“ Aunly w^aun pair of sculls,” he continued, peering into tl^e 
boat then Jonah have corned ashore by hisself, aunless the 
crew sent ’un adrift to save theirselves. Well, now, I reckon 
anyhow I’d best slip the knot of the painter, and then thic there 
spy wain’t get aboord agin in this craft to car’ news of we, or to 
keep his bones from the fishes.” 

So saying, Michael cooly unslipped the rope from the stake 
which had been driven into the sands to keep the boat secure. 
Then, with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes, he went down the 
long stretch of darkening sands towards the little church-town 
of Langarth. 

Here he and two others mounted sorry horses and rode away 
to carry their messages to outlaying farms, 

Pleasance, on reaching the house, ordered her pony-carriage 
and drove home, as it was her wont to do in the evenings. 


382 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Living alone, as she did, she did not like to leave her little 
household to themselves by night as well as by day. 

To Carrie’s inquiry for Estrild she answered that she was safe 
with Daniel, and would no doubt return with him. So Carrie 
felt no anxiety, even when twilight slipped impreceptibly into 
night and a rising wind moaned painfully round the old house of 
Langarth, 


CHAPTER LII. 

Within the cave the light penetrated for some little distance, 
and the flare of crimson in the sky cast a red streak across the 
white glistening sand which paved the cavern. 

To look back was to behold the glory of sun and sky framed 
like a picture by the dark rocky entrance of the cave ; to look 
forward was to meet black darkness at which the eye quivered 
and recoiled. 

“ You perceive, miss,” observed Daniel, “ that it would not be 
safe to stow the casks here — they might be seen from the beach. 
We must roll them farther on, into the ould place where they 
used to lie in your father’s time.” 

“Just as you will, Daniel ; but we cannot go farther on with- 
out a light.” 

“There used to be an ould lantern kept here somewhere 
abouts,” said Daniel, running his hand up the wall of rock. 
“ Auh, iss, here he is, and a beauty he be too ! But that’s nothin’ 
so long as there’s a bit of candle in ’un.” 

There was ; and, since it was made of strong yellow wax, it 
was in sufficiently good condition to burn. 

“ I reckon Martin have been in here prying round afore we 
coined,” observed Daniel, as he noted the freshness of the candle. 
“Now I hope my tinder is good.” 

He pulled from his pocket a small tin box which held flint, 
steel, and tinder ; and now began the troublesome business of 
procuring a light, which in the beginning of this great century 
could only be got by knocking a flint and steel together till 
sparks fell into the tinder and ignited it. Then it had to be 
blown at with careful breath while a clumsy sulphur-match was 
held to the slow-burning tinder. It was a process to be watched 
with interest, and the operator had to give his concentrated at- 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


383 


tention to it in order to ensure success. Thus it happened that, 
while the ruddy flickering light illumined DanieFs face and 
and threw it’s glimmer also on Estrild’s, neither heard a footfall 
not far from them ; neither saw a form that flitted by swiftly in 
the darkness. The dim light that rose and fell with Daniel’s 
breath make the darkness more intense, while of course render- 
ing them visible to the person passing. 

“It’s a cranky ould machne,” said •Daniel, holding up the 
heavy lantern after lighting the candle within it ; “ but, so the 
light’s good, as our pa’son once said, it don’t matter what the 
outside look of the the lantern be that carr’s it. Now, my dear, 
we’ll step on, and I’ll show ’ee where they used to stow the kegs 
in the ould days when the Squires were friendly.” 

The path tended slightly upwards, but it was not difficult, and 
they soon reached the place indicated. Here the ladings of a 
big ship might be hidden away, and no man’s eye be the wiser. 

Daniel lifted his lantern on high, the better to show the vast- 
ness of the cave. And now the light fell and glimmered on a 
surface of water. 

“ How’s this !” cried he, in a surprised tone. “ It’s more’n 
three years since I was here last, and I disremember ef water 
was iiere then or no ; but I reckon it wasn’t.” 

“ You are right — it was not here,” Estrild answered. 

Daniel walked to the edge of the pool which rippled darkly to 
his feet, and dipped his finger in it, then touched his lips. 

“ It’s fresh water,” he said, “ though a bit brakish ; so it’s the 
stream, miss, which have found a new way for itself out to sea.” 

They skirted the pools edge as far as it’s low roof of rocks 
would permit, and found this was the case ; but the way by 
which the water came or how it made it’s way to the sea they 
could not discover. The overhanging rocks barred further pro- 
gress except perhaps to a man, who might have dared to climb 
onwards on hands and knees. 

Save for the glimmer on the water where the light fell, the 
pool lay in black darkness ; and there was something awful in 
its solitude and depth and in the hollow echo of their voices 
which the rocky roof swept back to them across the darkness. 

“ Come away !” said Estrild, with a slight shudder. “ This is 
a dismal place — a man might die in it, and his death never be 
knowa” 

“ ’Tis whisht and oogly,” acquiesced Daniel ; “ and maybe 


384 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


there's rifts too en the rock to hould a dead man ; and he might 
lie there unfound till Doomsday.^' 

So saying they passed along the verge of the pool, the flash of 
light they carried coming and going in a wierd way across its 
black water, and their lonely tread awaking ghostly steps, which 
seemed to follow steathily, as their figures vanished beyond a 
huge rock. Past this the cavern narrowed, as Harold had found 
when he explored it ; afid soon the wall of rock was reached, 
which had appeared to him to bar all further ingress, till he had 
discovered the ladder which was placed here, and above and be- 
yond which lay that deep gorge in the park where he and Estrild 
met and parted. 

At this spot Daniel stopped, saying — 

“I reckon, miss, you won’t be timid now of going on alone?” 
i^o,” Estrild returned ; what is there to fear ? I know 
every step of the way. And the light from the rent in the rocks 
above will be enough for me; so you can have the lantern 
Daniel.” 

‘‘ I won’t take it, miss. If you’ll light me just past the big 
rock near the new pool, that’s all I shall need. The ladder is 
safe,” he added, putting his strong hand upon it, to feel how 
steady it was ; ‘‘ but you’ll climb it the easier for having the 
lantern.” 

Estrild did not say no. She turned back with him, both walk- 
ing slowly, while he spoke regretfully of Martin’s imprudence in 
the use to which he had put the Curlew, 

“And ’twould grieve me to the heart to lose her,” he said. 
“You know ef she’s seized with a contraband cargo aboard she’ll* 
be sold, so I’m pewerly thankful to you. Miss Estrild ” 

“ Don’t say a word, Daniel ; I owe my life to you. What is 
this trifle that I do in return? It is nothing.” 

“Well, I promise you, miss, if your goodness saves the Curlew 
to-night, she shall never run such a risk again. Now I shall go 
out to the head of the bay in a fishing-boat with a couple of men, 
and board her if I can come across her ; and, ef not, we shall 
light a signal she’ll onderstand. Good night, miss. There’s no 
need to come farther ; and the tide is running in fast, so I must 
hurry a bit.” 

He put the lantern in Estrild’s hand, and, turning once, 
smiled, and waved a good-bye as she stood watching him wend 
his way into the darkness towards the sea-entrance of the cave. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


385 


As he disappeared her heart fell, and a wavering irresolution 
unsteadied her thoughts. A sudden impulse to follow Daniel 
seized her ; but she resisted it, remembering that the tide would 
by this time have covered the sands, and to return under cliff 
and reach the winding path would be difficult if not impossible. 

Daniel was gone to the left, where it was practicable to pass 
from rock to rock down to Langarth Church-town, but her way 
would lie to the right, where the waves beat against a wall of 
rock, so the only road open to her w^as through the cavern ; and, 
as she had originally decided, she resolved now again to take it, 
knowing there was no cause for fear save in the fancies of her 
own imagination, touched wierdly by the wild loneliness and 
darkness of the place. 

But, while she stood in clouded thought, wavering, many 
minutes had passed, and she awoke to the consciousness of a 
deeper volume of sound than usual rolling towards her from the 
sea. A thousand wistful echoes gathered round her from the 
distant hollows of the cave, and these scarce had time to sigh 
away their voices ere the beat of the next wave recalled them in 
louder and yet louder rolls of sound. The no;se grew deafening ; 
it was like standing in the nndst of mingled thunders or the 
roar of cannon, and the mighty rush of reverberations upon the 
ear confused her. As a fugitive in a lost battle, bewildered by 
by the very horror of sound, seeks to fly from the din of raging 
death, yet runs to the cannon’s mouth, so did Estrild now rush 
forward to the appalling din of the sea. 

She was met by a great wave which rolled to her very feet, 
and, dashing up the rocks on either side, scattered its wild spray 
upon her head, and then fell back upon its brother wave with a 
long-drawn swell of sound. The noise of its fall shook the 
ground ; but Estrild, though she started back from its roar, 
gathered courage from the sight of her danger. 

The tide had been on the flow for about three hours, and was 
rolling onward with unwonted force, fast filling the cavern with 
in-rushing death. A south-westerly wind, rapidly rising to a 
storm, hurried on the seas, which with dreadful roar beat against 
the rocky sides and roof, tilling the hollows with immeasurable 
sound. Estrild knew she must hasten now to retrace her steps 
to safety, so she turned from the din that confused her senses, 
and set her face against the darkness. The roar followed her 
like a pursuing host, but as she went onwards it subsided into 
Y r 


386 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


dull echoes and fell at last softly into silence. She breathed 
again now more calmly, and her self-possession and courage re- 
turned to her. So she walked on with steady step, smiling to 
herself at her own fears ; but suddenly her foot touched water, 
and she recoiled with a shock of amazed bewilderment. Had 
she taken a wrong turning, or what had happened ? She held 
the lantern low to examine the path, and tlie flash of its light 
touched the surface of a heaving lake. In an instant she per- 
ceived the truth. The stream without, swelled by the sudden 
storm, had increased the water of the pool, which was now 
spreading over the rocky way which led to the ladder. But it 
was not deep ; in a moment she had passed through it and stood 
on the other side, and turned and looked down the watery waste. 
It had grown so large that it gave her a chill of fear ; and her 
reflection in the water, as it rippled to her feet, had the look of 
a ghost standing desolate on the border of outer darkness — so 
faint, so wan did the image appear to her, as she watched it 
vanish as she moved away. 

At this instant, when her heart was sinking, she fancied the 
sound of a step fell upon the stillness. Greatly startled, she 
leaned against a rock and listened intently, but heard only the 
slow gurgling of the water and her owm quick heart-beats. Re- 
assured, she \vent on swiftly through the narrowing and ever- 
narrowing path that stretched on to the great wall of rock which 
closed the cave, against which tlie ladder leaned that led to light 
and safety. She reached it pantingly, telling herself in hurried 
thought that in another moment she would stand beneath the 
sky, freed from these dark straightened walls pressing now pain- 
fully upon heart and brain. 

Eagerly she stretched out her hand to clasp the ladder-rung, 
and touched only the bare rock ! Her heart stood still from the 
shock, yet she believed she had missed the exact spot ; so she 
lifted the light higher, and saw the whole surface of the rock 
bare — the ladder was gone ! 

The recoil from hope to despair, the piteous horror of the 
truth struck her like a blow ; her senses reeled, and she fell at 
the foot of the huge impregnable barrier, which, like the cruel 
door of a dungeon, shut out light and life, leaving her to dark- 
ness and to death. 

She was awakened to consciousness by the cold touch of water 
on her hand ; her left arm was outstretched and lay towards the 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


387 


pool — the water had risen and reached it. For one moment of 
bewilderment she knew not what had happened or where she 
was ; then the ghastly truth returned upon her with a force that 
sent the blood to her heart in a rush of unutterable horror. The 
step was real which she had heard ; and a cruel hand h^^d re- 
moved the ladder with murderous purpose to cause her death. 
Yet no — that was impossible; throughout the whole wide world 
she hated no one, and no one hated her. It was accident — pure 
accident ; and she was to die as all her race died, by the power 
of an unseen hand — for she knew she had to die. Stealing on- 
ward, only a hand’s-breadth from her, was the cold death which 
even now with insiduous touch was rippling to her feet. She 
kept her senses — she could measure the time. She knew what 
was happening, and what must happen. The unwonted high 
fierce tide, rolling inwards, had met the fresh water rushing out, 
and driving it back by its greater strength, forced it up through 
the narrow path ; and for the next three hours it would rise and 
rise, till it took her life. It would not require that time to 
drown her. Would it take an hour? Yes, perhaps she might 
live yet an hour; or, if she could climb to some higher ledge of 
rock, two hours might be granted to her in which to pray and 
bid farewell to life, to her dear home, and to Harold — dearest of 
all ! 

The thought of him brought a gush of sudden tears and an 
agonised cry for life. The water was gathering cold about her 
feet ; and in terror she held the lii^ht up high, lest some spray 
should touch and extinguish it Even in her fall, her grasp on 
the one comfort left her — a little light — had not relaxed, and it 
was still safe in her hand ; but now she looked on it with eyes 
full of fear, for it was fast burning away, and in a few minutes 
utter darkness would fall upon and around her. In the short 
spell of light still granted to her she would strive — she would 
fight hard for her life 

She held the light aloft, and caught at a narrow ledge of rock 
with her left hand ; by this she hung, and she succeeded in plac- 
ing the lantern on it safely. To a man, with a man's strength 
and might, the task would have been difficult ; to her it was an 
effort that left her breathless and exhausted, as, clinging now 
with both hands to the rocky ledge, she waited for renewed 
breath before making one superhuman struggle for life. With 
her strong young arms she succeeded, her terrors aiding her, in 


388 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


drawing herself above the water, and gaining a precarious foot- 
ing on a little ridge which helped her to reach the ledge where 
she found a resting place. It was narrow but slanted inwards, 
and by clinging to the rock above she could stand with tolerable 
security. 

The sense of present safety brought infinite relief to the 
agonized tenison of her mind ; and, after a minute spent in quiet 
thankfulness to rest and regain breath and strength, she was 
able calmly to scan her situation, and measure the chajices of 
escape with a touch of hopefulness. 

She was now so high above the encroaching water that she 
knew herself to be safe for a time ; the great question was, For 
how long a time? Would it be long enough for her rescue by 
Carrie, who would assuredly cause a search to be made for her 
when she and the household grew alarmed at her absence ? Yes, 
yes, it would be long enough if they came soon ; but who among 
them would think of this cavern — would dream of searching for 
her here? All who could tell of her having entered it were far 
away — Daniel in his fishing lugger at sea, Martin miles inland, 
Pleasance in her home. If they sent to her to inquire, then per- 
haps No, no; that was a hopeless thought — the water 

would reach her long before any messenger could return from 
Pleasance. 

The thread of her thoughts broke here, and grew tangled and 
confused ; she fancied she heard the sound of many voices, and 
her heart leapt with joy — it was Danitl and the crew of the 
Curlew coming through the tide to rescue her. She awoke from 
this dream with a start of pained fear. Was she losing her 
senses that she should allow so mad a fancy to possess her mind 
for a moment ? Daniel and the Curlew^ s men could not enter the 
cave till the fierce tide was at half-ebb ; and then, if they found 
her, it would be lying dead in the darkness. 

She drew herself together with a shudder, and turned to look 
at the dwindling light ; then she saw that with an efibrt she 
might reach a wider portion of the ledge, where there would be 
safer footing. On gaining this, she found a niche in the rock 
wide enough for her to rest in, either sitting or standing. She 
sat down, and in the comfort of this shelter leaned her face upon 
her arms and wept and prayed silently. 

When she raised her eyes again the light was gone. 

It was a shock ; and the darkness at first was overpowering. 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


389 


30 crushing all courage and nerve that she cowered against the 
rock, clutching it with trembling hands, and even pressing her 
face to it, because in this ghastly darkness, with death beneath, 
it seemed a necessity to hold by something. 

Some minutes passed thus, she knew not how long — she could 
not count time now — and then she was startled into a shriek by 
the sudden fall of the lantern. It fell, not to the ground, but 
into water ; and the cry stayed suspended on Estrild’s lips as 
she knew now the flood was deep enough to float it ; only a few 
minutes ago, had it fallen, it would have touched ground, now 
the water bore it up and carried it away ; so the flood had risen 
fast, and it would soon reach her ark of refuge. In this near 
approach of death she sought in her memory for words of com- 
fort — words of promise. Many came to her mind, and she said 
them over many times ; yet they grew mingled with the terrible 
threatenings of prophecy — the words of the seers who foretold 
desolation — 

“How wilt thou do in the swellings of Jordan?’* “When He 
uttereth His voice there is a multitude of waters.” “Give glory 
before He cause darkness, and before your feet stumble upon the 
dark mountains and while ye look for light. He turn it into the 
shadow of death.” “ Behold the noise of the bruit is come, and 
a great commotion to make desolate, and a den of dragons.” 

These broken utterances, and many, many more came to her 
in ever-shifting memories; and through , all these she was ever 
hearing the approach of the sea — a confused noise like the mur- 
mur of many voices crying “ Death — death !” It was the break- 
ing of the heavy seas upon the mass of fresh water pouring down 
to meet them ; it was the rush and roar of waves ^<j|ashing sullen- 
ly against the great rocks that hemmed them in ;’it was the sure 
and relentless advance of the sea that was bringing death upon 
its waters. 

The rising tide had reached the inner portion of the cave, and 
the noise of its fury could be heard here at its very head. Es- 
trild strove to shut out the appalling sound from her senses by 
hands pressed upon her ears. But this was vain ; it grew in 
strength, it overwhelmed, it overcame all thought except the 
dread sense of its own awfu’. power. Those who have stood in 
battle amid “ confused noise and garments rolled in blood ” know 
the very agony of sound, as do those who go down to the depths 
with the roar of the sea in their dying ears. 


390 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


Before the march of this great sound Estrild’s senses fainted ; 
delusive thoughts, strange fancies began to teem within her mind 
and show themselves around her in visions ; of this the compres- 
sion of the air, driven forward by the water, affecting breath 
and brain, doubtless was in truth the cause. Be that as it may, 
dreams now pressed around her ; the sound of the chafing surging 
seas changed to music — a music of preparation for a battle, the 
tread of innumerable hosts, the marching onwards of countless 
battalions, mingled with the call of a thousand trumpets, the 
roll of a thousand drums. 

Stirred by the mighty sound, she rose in delirium to her feet 
and raised her voice in a wild song. 

It was the Crusaders^ chant ! In a moment she recognized it 
with a return of sense, stilled her voice, and fell upon her knees, 
clinging to the rock. It was too late— the echoes of the cave 
had caught the song and flung it back from rock to rock, from 
wave to wave, till every rushing wind and every rolling sea sang 
the Crusaders’ chant in wild repetition with voices that rose 
and swelled, died down and rose again. 

It was a chant of terror, a chant of doom, and all the super 
stitious fears of her race swept over Estrild’s heart, mingled with 
a sad satisfaction that at her death also this wild funeral song 
was not wanting. 

And now the preparation for a battle changed to the march 
past of the crusading hosts ; the tramp of ten thousand times ten 
thousand men swept by; and of all this mighty throng one 
alone was to live — live to pine in a dungeon and thrust a withered 
hand through cruel bars for his daily pittance of bread. As the 
piteous story like a dark thread through her dream, she saw 
the hand in a pale prison light, beckoning and* pointing downwards 
to the rising floocj. 

“ You too must die,” whispered an inward voice, not her own. 
“ You, the last of the race on which my hand has taken ven- 
geance, must die, and my spirit will find rest. Farewell — an 
everlasting farewell !” 

The vision vanished ; but, amid a hurrying to and fro, and the 
trembling of defeat and flight, a thousand singing voices took up 
the words — “ Farewell — an everlasting farewell !” And then 
came hand-claspings and whispers of heart-broken partings, cries 
of pain, hurrying feet trampling down the dying, and again, re- 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


391 


verberating through all, the sigh of the sea — “ Farewell — an 
everlasting farewell ? * 

i|t * V » * 

The hand with the pale glory on it clutched her hand ; and 
with the cold touch Estrild awoke from the confused vision that 
darkness and fear and the horror of great sound had brought 
upon her brain. Her right arm was hanging over the ledge on 
which she lay ; and the water had risen now so high that as it 
lapped against the rock it touched her fingers. 

She stretched her arm down in the darkness, and her hand 
was plunged in water to the wrist. So dreaded d' ath was come j 
with cold sure feet he had crept onwards till but two inches of 
rock stood between her and his chill clutch. The sense that all 
was lost gave her a strange calm. She drew a little ivory tablet 
from her purse and strove to write a word of everlasting love — 
a farewell with hope — that might comfort Harold. 

At this instant, when the flood with death’s very touch was 
cold about her feet, a sudden revulsion of feeling seized her. 
In the very heart of the death that waited for her, there quiver- 
ed a small pale light, no larger than the gold star in the heart of 
the tiniest flower. But it was the light of a mighty sun millions 
upon millions of miles aw^ay, that, shining as a small star in the 
earth’s sky, sent now the reflection of his light through a little 
rift in her dungeon to quiver upon the dark waters and recall 
her to life and love. 

The rift in the roof above her was narrow as the edge of her 
hand, and in a moment the star had passed ; but its message re- 
mained on the heaving darkness ; and, kneeling down, her face 
upon her cold wet hands, Estrild prayed, and thanked God for 
the hope that had been sent to her from beyond the w'orlds, in 
the message from the shining star, whispering to her spirit that 
she would be saved. 


CHAPTER LIIL 

Every mile that diminished the distance between him and 
Estrild lifted a portion of the load weighing on Harold’s mind ; 
and he felt more and more assured that he was right in setting 
aside all other purposes for the one he was now fulfilling. To 


392 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


reach Langarth, to stand by Estrild's side and protect her from 
the unknown fear that assailed her, was his first duty. Great 
as his debt of gratitude might be to Mr. Irrian, the search 
for him must be left to Dr. Arnold. But, mindful of the promise 
he had made, he prosecuted earnest inquiries all along the route 
— at quaint hostelries in sleepy towns where the coach stopped 
for refreshment, and lonely posting-houses where it stayed to 
change horses. But at none of these did he gain any information 
that brought certainty with it. 

Descriptions were not wanting of all sorts of travellers — horse- 
men and footmen, and men in every kind of vehicle that ran 
upon wheels ; but, as Harold listened, he could find no trait of 
likeness between them and Mr. Irrian ; so at length he grew con- 
vinced that the unfortunate wanderer had taken the road to 
Southampton, and gradually his questions dropped, and he heard 
no more descriptions of strange travellers from fellow-passengers, 
ostlers, inkeepers, and turnpike-men. 

In Cornwall at last, on the rugged side of it, where the At- 
lantic rushed down “on the thundering shores of Boss and 
Bude.” 

Harold had promised to take this northern road, not reflecting 
that it would involve a second journey across the county from 
its rugged iron coast on the north-east to the softer sea on the 
south shore. A stage passing from Padstow traversed this route 
twice a week, and Harold was fortunate enough to catch it as it 
started. But it was poorly horsed, and so crawled up the great 
hills or dragged down them with a slowness that chafed his spirit 
terribly. This grew to a feverish impatience when the coach 
crept along a high heath by the south coast, and he could look 
down on a surf-tormented shore and watch the long line of phos- 
phoric light that gleamed along the sands or dashed up in pale 
fire against the tall clifls that defined the bay of Langarth. 

It was a rough night ; rain fell in torrents, and a south-west 
;wind, blowing in its strength, flung upon the shore heavy seas, 
whose thundering falls, echoing far inland, reached the ears of 
the drenched travellers as, to ease the starveling horses, they 
toiled up a long hill on foot, with rain and wind beating against 
their faces. Full of thought, Harold walked alone to avoid 
speech with others, for he was not in a mood to “ make talk 
with strangers. But sometimes a stray word caught his ear, dis- 
tracting his attention for a moment ere he plunged back into 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


393 


reverie again. This happened at a spot where two lanes inter- 
sected the high road ; at this place the stage had halte.i, and a 
rough box was jerked down from the piled roof. 

“ Here’s your box, Mr. Trevail, but where’s your horse-and- 
cart r 

The farmer thus addressed stared about him in dismay ; then, 
putting two fingers to his lips, he whistled loudly. This brought 
running towards him a lank boy, who had taken shelter under a 
tree somewhere down the lane. 

“ Missus has been forced to send the donkey-cart ; the boss was 
wanted, sir,” said the boy significantly. 

‘‘What’s up then?” 

The boy answered in a low voice; but Harold heard the word 
Curlew, and turned now a sharp attention to the colloquy. The 
farmer however kept silent for some moments after receiving the 
news given him ; but he was evidently excited in a grave way. 

“ Go home with the cart as fast as you can, and bring on the 
mare to me. I shall ride over to Langarth, and see what’s going 
on.” 

“I can’t bring the mare, sir; she’ve been pixy-ridden.” 

“ Go ’long, you young varmit, and fetch her to waunce,” said 
tlie irate farmer. “ Don’t tell me none of your strains ’bout 
pixies.” 

“But she’s gone, sir,” persisted the boy; and missus says ” 

“Please take your places, gentlemen,” said the driver hurried- 
ly. “ I want to get on now.” 

Every one hastily clambered to his seat as the man waved his 
whip with impatience, and gathered up the reins with a jerky 
hand. Harold perforce mounted with the rest ; and as the coach 
slowly descended the hill, the figures of the puzzled farmer and 
his boy disappeared, but their words remained with him. His 
seat was just behind the driver’s; he leaned forward and said in 
a low voice — 

“ What is going on ? Do you know ?” 

“ How should I know ?” returned the man with an uneasy 
laugh. “ My ventures don’t run in that line.” 

“ The French have landed,” said another man, giving Harold 
a friendly lunge of warning. 

“ Going to land, you mean,” returned the driver, “ ef they 
bain’t caught and hanged. There’s a watchman aboard.” 

He pointed with his whip seawards ; but in the descent of the 


394 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


hill, the bay, the surf-lined shore, and the schooner lying off the 
headland were lost to view. Harold however had caught the 
veiled meaning of the answers given to him, and he felt vaguely 
uneasy. He knew the “landing of the French’' was a cant 
term for the landing of French brandy and other contraband 
French products, and he had a misgiving of danger to Langarth 
through the daring deeds of the smugglers. His mind grew full 
of forebodings as the memory his first visit to Langarth shadow- 
ed it, when, as now, a desperate smuggling expedition was astir, 
and through it the life of a Carbonellis was lost. 

“ How near to the house of Langaath can you set me down 1” 
he asked of the coachman eagerly. 

“About a matter of two miles,” said the man carelessly, fling- 
ing the words back as he leaned forward to hear the whispered 
speech of his friend on the box-seat. 

“They are deaf to anything but smuggling,” thought Harold 
indignantly. “ They smell French brandy ; they are like hunters 
after a fox — mad to pursue their sport.” 

Being angry he was injudicious. 

“Well, I believe I ought to give information to the coastguard 
that a certain farmer has lent his horse and-cart for a bad pur- 
pose,” he said, in a hard tone ; “ so you had better try and put me 
down a little nearer Langarth than two miles !” 

Conversation all around him ceased; and every one listened 
for the coachman's answer. 

“ If you don't mind a rough road,” said the man in a civil 
tone, “ you had best get down here ; it’s nearer by half a mile 
than the place where I reckoned on stopping.” 

“ And which way must I go ?” 

“You see thic lane to the left?” — pointing with his whip. 
“ Keep straight on, and you can’t miss. Your portmanty ? Yes 
— I’ll leave he at the turnpike. Good night 1” 

Harold was down in the road now, and the driver was just 
starting the horses, when, from the window of the coach, a 
woman’s hand dropped a slip of paper, and, by a gesture, signi- 
fied to Harold that it was for him. At that same instant the 
coach drove off, amid the sound of ironical laughter. 

“ Informers are poor company for honest men !” shouted the 
coachman’s friend. “If we meet again, maybe, I’ll give ’ee a 
Cornish hug. But there, I never knowed a Londoner who could 
wrastle !” 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


395 


** Good riddance of bad rubbish !” cried another voice. 

“Yah!” yelled the coachman, that his voice might reach its 
mark. “ I wouldn't have carr'd 'ee another mile for a hunder' 
pounds I Informers would make the ould coach smell of sulpher 
for a month 1” 

Another laugh, and the wheels rolled away through the mud, 
while Harold was left standing in the blinding rain, his veins 
tingling with fierce exasperation, mingled with a ludicrous sense 
of helplessness to avenge himself. After a second or two of in- 
ward raging, he picked up the slip of paper from the road ; but 
it was mud-stained and rain-blotted, and in a good light would 
have been hard to decipher ; here beneath clouded moon and 
stars it was impossible. He must find a cottage and get a light, 
and then make inquiries as to his road. Of course he would not 
take the one indicated, as it was most likely the wrong one. It 
cost him a good half-hour’s walking before the light from a cot- 
tage window twinkled out at a little distance. He crossed the 
field leading to it, and found that a tiny child of five and a poor 
old bed-ridden woman, stone-deaf, were the only souls at home. 
He gave up the woman as hopeless , and the child could only tell 
him it was a “a long way to Langarth.” So he turned to the 
pencilled lines on the rain-blotted paper, and rei^d this — 

“ You are a good five miles from Langarth. Do not follow 
the road pointed out to you. It leads to an old mine ; and you 
might easily fall into the shaft. Go straight on to the four-mile 
stone ; then take the first lane on the left, bearing towards the 
sea.” 

On the outside of the folded slip was written — 

“ From a friend, who advises a stranger not to meddle, but to 
leave the coastguard to do its own work.”^ 

Harold smiled as he crushed the paper in his hand. 

“ I understand her meaning,” he said to himself. “She was 
willing to save me from the shafts of her beloved country, but 
not to help me to inform against her friends. Ic is a sort of 
condition she makes. Now i wonder if her route will tumble 
me over the clifif, instead of into a shaft If Is there no horse to 
be hired anywhere about here, little girlT 


396 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


‘‘Farmer Trevail^s hoss be dead, mother said. Her’s long 
with Mrs. Trevail ; her’s took bad — sheared like into tits. And 
— and I seed farmer Pryse’s hoss not long agone,”, continued the 
child, staring at Harold with round eyes of fright. “ And I felt 
scairt ; and 1 corned in with grannie. 

“Where can 1 find your father?” asked Harold impatiently. 

He’s gone ’long with the hoss-and-cart to help the Langarth 
men. Don’t ’ee tell the sodgers, now — will ’ee ?” 

At this reply Harold felt the chance of his gaining inform- 
ation was hopeless, and he must trust now to his own head and 
and his own feet. He put half a crown in the deaf old woman’s 
hand and departed. Her eyes gleamed with joy over the coin ; 
and she screamed out her thanks in a shrill treble, yet was evi- 
dently suspicious, for, as Harold stood for a moment pondering 
outside the door, he heard her in the same shrill tone cry out to 
the child — 

“^le bain’t no good, I reckon ! You haven’t told ’un nauthin’, 
Molly r 

“Ho, grannie, ’cept that Farmer Trevail’s wife was sheared 
most to death.” 

“ There, there,” shrieked the woman in her high key — “ don’t 
’ee tell me no strams ’bout ghosts ! I’ve seed ghosts enough in 
my time. I mind the day when the ould Squire was found dead 
— drowned in vour inches of waetur, faace of ’un lying in the 
brook ; and I seed the Black Rider go by with my aun eyes. 
Auh, I mind it better’n I mind what hap’d yesterday ! I was 
a purty little cheeld then. And ’taties was dear then ; they 
wesn’t growed out in fields, like they be now. Auh, ’twes poor 
times 1 Barley-bread and work hard for’t. Ghosts ? Auh, 
ghosts will come for us aal !” 

Harold shut the door on the old woman’s recollections ; bub 
some of her words rested in his mind, or rather quivered through 
it, bringing half-awakened thoughts and apprehensions that he 
flung aside. But his heart had a quicker beat as he set his face 
steadfastly towards Langarth. 

The south-west wind had brought in a fog from the sea, and 
he walked through a thick white mist which shut out every land- 
mark, enclosing him step by step in the solitude of soft walls, 
through which he went as through the cells of a prison, ever en- 
closed, ever alone, nothing visible save the drear whiteness 
through which he paced darkly. 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


397 


Fearing to lose the turning to the left which he had been 
directed to follow, he walked close to the hedge on this side, and 
felt intensely relieved when he came upon the lane, and heai d 
dimly in the distance the full soft rushing sound of the sea. 
Meeting the wind now in its force, he realized its strength, and 
knew that waves heaped storm-high must be sweeping down 
upon the shore and flinging their spray far up the cliffs of Lan- 
garth. He hurried on feverishly, beating against the fog and 
wind with strained eyes and rain-battered face, every step closed 
up behind him by the insiduous wall of mist, and every step in 
front taken darkly. The lane seemed interminable ; and some- 
times his doubting heart stayed his steps for a moment in un- 
certainty ; then he pressed onwards, flushed with a new fever of 
haste. 

Rewarded at last ! Out of the darkness of night and mist 
there loomed upon him suddenly a denser darkness, taking shape 
as he neared it, and resolving itself into a low wall, which sur- 
rounded an outlying portion of Langarth. He I'ecognized this 
fact with a feeling of intense relief ; and, going back a step he 
took a short run aud cleared the wall at a bound. 

He was within the pale of Langarth, within a short measur- 
able distance of home, joy, and love ; and yet at this very instant, 
when his over-weighted heart had sprung back to its balance, 
and a smile at his own forebodings w^as standing on his lips, he 
w^as struck pale by a sound. It was a strangely soft clear 
whistle, not shrill or ear-piercing, and yet intense and far-reach- 
ing as a trumpet, sounding in the guests to Death’s feast — a 
battle. 

Struck motionless as though a hand had clutched him, Harold 
stood intently listening for an answering signal to this wild call ; 
and, after a time, slow and breathless as seconds to a drowning 
man, it came softly on the wind, rising from the sea, clear and lum- 
inous as a thread in darkness, and yet mingled with all the wierd 
muffled sounds which crept spectrally through the mist. 

‘‘ It was a smuggler’s signal,” said Harold to himself, with a 
breath of relief. ‘‘ My nerves are unstrung or chafed, or I 
should not for an instant have harboured the wild idea that my 
mysterious fellow-traveller of three years ago — be he man or 
demon — w’as whistling in the air to-night.” 

So saying, Harold walked swiftly onwards, and gradually 
gained a knowledge of his bearinga He perceived he was in 


398 


FROM THB OTHER SIDE. 


that wild unfrequented portion of the park which skirted the 
high rugged cliffs, beneath which the caves ran which he so well 
remembered visiting. With the recollection came also the re- 
membrance of the deep ravine or gorge running up inland like a 
roofless continuation of the cavern, and towards which he now 
feared his steps were bending. The fear vexed him ; for, if this 
impassable chasm lay between him and Langarth, then he must 
turn aside and head it ; and tliis would increase his walk by more 
than a mile. That lie was nearing it he now felt convinced, for 
the dreadful roaring of the sea beneath his feet shook the earth, 
and filled his ears with a sense of interminable sound. With a 
horrible power and strength it rolled along beneath him, like an 
infernal drum-beat calling lost souls to the caves of death. 

Louder and louder grew the sullen roar of the pent-up waves, 
twining, tangling, and foaming in the rocky hollows beneath his 
path ; yet he kept steadily on, resolved that only the chasm itself 
intercepting the way should force him to turn aside and choose 
the longer route. That he was not far from the horrible place 
he felt convinced, for a thousand wild echoes were rushing up its 
hollows and screaming in his ears. 

It was a wild night indeed ; and the heaving sea, the strong 
wind, the sullen roar of breakers on the surf-tossed shore, the 
awful rush of waters heaped on waters within the cave, the 
swaying of the creaking trees, all filled the thick darkness with 
sound shrieking upon sound. Treading carefully, lest the great 
rift should loom upon him too suddenly, Harold walked on 
through the whirling sounds, when one struck upon his sense 
that rooted his feet to the grovnd. It was the echo of Estrild’s 
delirious song ; it was the Crusaders’ chant passing wildly down 
the gorge on the wings of the wild wind. 

As a falling star is for an instant distinct ere it is lost for ever, 
so was that fateful music for one second distinct and clear ere it 
was lost amid the voices of sea and storm. Yet still the echo 
from the cave’s din seemed to bring it to him in fitful cadences, 
mingled with the roar of the prisoned waves. 

But when a man is lost at night, with fog and darkness all 
around him, and anxiety gnawing at his heart, fancies are apt to 
grow upon the mind, and phantoms, either of sound or sight, are 
too easily created. 

Telling himself this truism, Harold faced about, meaning to 
leave the great rift, visible darkly to his eyes now, like a black 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


S99 


line in the rank grass, and pursue his path by the safe road. He 
had not reached it, when there loomed on his vision a dark out- 
line, taking shape as it neared him. It came so suddenly that 
he stepped aside to let it pass, although it was still so far away 
that by this one step he put it out of sight, and again it was 
only a darkness coming on softly, yet swiftly. A step forward, 
and once more it was a shape up-thrust through the mist, phan- 
tom-like, yet real. 

It was the figure of a rider — a man with the set rigid face and 
livid eyes of a man in battle, whose horse stands fetlock-high in 
blood. Harold marked the wild trance-like aspect of the man 
with a moment^s wonder ; the next instant he had recognized 
him. 

It was the stranger with whom he had crossed the ferry at 
Torpoint — the man who had ridden ahead of the coach through 
that long night-journey — the Black Bicler who brought death to 
Langarth ! Why was he here? What was his dread message 
now ? 

A horrible fear clutched Harold by the heart ; but it was a 
fear so mingled with fierce wrath that it strung his nerve to 
steel. Man or demon, he would circumvent this fiend now, or 
die in the attempt. He would reach Langarth before him and 
baffle the murder that looked out from those livid blood-streaked 
eyes. Harold gave one glance to the dark figure passing into 
the mist ; for one second he listened to ring of the horse’s hoofs 
as they struck the road leading to Langarth, and he saw that 
his wild impulse to pursue the rider, to seize his bridle and hurl 
him from the saddle was one impossible to fulfil. How could 
foot contend with horse ? 

So there was one way — only one — by which he could reach 
Langarth before the messenger of death — he must cross the 
chasm. As an arrow shot from a bow he sped towards it, 
Estrild’s name on his parted lips, Estrild’s life hanging on his 
panting breath. With far-stretched vision he could just disern 
the great rift looming darkly like a grave before him, when sud- 
denly a sound fell upon his ear that drove the blood to his heart 
in one swift rush. 

It was the sound of a horse galloping I The rider had turned 
and was pursuing his steps ! Assured of the ominous fact by 
the fierce rapid hoof-beats that struck his car like a knell of 
death, Harold felt an access of wrath that made his veins run as 


400 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


with living fire, bracing his nerves to steel. He rushed onwards ; 
he reached the chasm and, as he cleared it with a bound, he 
could have fancied the breath from the horse’s nostrils touched 
him like a hot wind. On the other side of the great rift, pant- 
ing, he paused and turned, and saw with horror indescribable 
the strange horseman was following madly. For one instant he 
was visible, his hand lifted in the air, the next man and horse 
had gone crashing down into the darkness and death of the deep 
gorge. That the rider had striven to leap the gulf was certain 
by the action of his uplifted hand ; but the terror-stricken horse 
had failed in his spring, and both now were lying on the rocks 
below crushed out of life. 

Harold stood appalled for just a second’s space; then, rushing 
to the edge of the ravine, he seized a stunted bush and flung him- 
self over, and so, hanging on to projecting rock or tufted grass, 
or whatever his hand could seize with desperate clutch, he reach- 
ed the bottom bruised and breathless. 

The fog had lifted with strange swiftness beneath the glow of 
the moon just risen from the sea; and she drew the mist up as 
she rose as though a hand of light had seized, rent it to shreds, 
and flung it away. In the soft sheen, now clearing all things to 
the sight, Harold saw the horse stretched quivering in a death- 
throe. Beside it lay its rider, his pale set face looking upwards 
to the stars, his eyes wide open, that dread expression on them 
that Harold had noted — the look of a man in battle who faces 
his foes with the rage to kill set like a seal of fire on his brow. 
On his lips was a smile ol derision ; he had thought of victory, 
and died ere he knew defeat had befallen him. 

With the feeling of repugnance that sent a chill through his 
veins, Harold placed his hand over the heart of the prostrate 
man, and fancied he felt it beat. Then succour must be brought 
instantly! But how should he gain it? Remembering in a 
flash of thought that he had a dog-whistle with him, he drew it 
from his pocket and sounded it with a strong breath. An an- 
swering whistle resounded through the ravine. Did it come from 
Langarth ? No ; a figure was coming towards him in a dazed 
way from the end of the gorge nearest the sea. It came on as 
though it saw neither rock nor scaur ; but it passed all these 
safely with swift steps, and yet with so strange a walk and mien 
that Harold’s gaze was fixed on it in bewilderment. 

A moment later he passed his hand across his eyes, as though 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


401 


to chase away a dream ; then he called out, in a sharp voice of 
amazement. — 

“ Cumberland ! Good heavens, is it you ? Come here ! Tell 
me if you can who this is ! Is he man or fiend 

Cumberland’s fixed gaze passed over Harold, as though he did 
not see him ; and flinging himself down on his knees beside the 
dead man, he raised slightly the cold white face, and, in a voice 
unlike his own, he whispered — 

“ Father, I have done your bidding 

The words thrilled through Harold’s veins ; he laid his hand on 
the young man’s shoulder arid cried angrily — 

“Cumberland! Rouse youiself! Are you mad? Who is 
this man?” 

Cumberland looked up, his hand pressed upon his forehead, 
and spoke as though the words were forced from him. 

“ It is my father — Mr. Irrian of Trame.” 


CHAPTER LIY. 

Harold had no time to utter forth, even in broken words, the 
amazement, the horror, the pain, that rushed over him at Cum- 
berland’s strange avowal, for at that moment lights flashed upon 
them from above and many voices hailed them eagerly. 

“Who is that below? Have you found her?” cried Carrie, in 
sharp accents of fear. 

“It is I — Harold Olver; I have found Mr. Irrian.” 

“ Great heavens !” exclaimed another voice ; and then, to 
Harold’s intense surprise, Doctor Arnold appeared at the edge 
of the precipice, bending over it eagerly, striving to penetrate 
the darkness below. 

“ I traced him,” he cried, “to within a few miles of this place ; 
I lost him in the country lanes. Is he restored to sense ? Is he 
well? 

“He will feel ill no more in this world,” said Harold — “he is 
dead.” 

A moment’s silence, and then Doctor Arnold and the crowd 
around him repeated the word “ dead ” in many accents ; and 
there arose in an instant a hubbub of voices and countless cries 
and questions which Harold could not answer, 

z 


402 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE, 


“ Mr. Irrian tried to leap the gorge — his horse failed in the 
attempt ; both fell — both are dead/' lie said simply. Further 
explanation, he felt, would only plunge him into the inexplicable 
mystery which lay now before him shrouded in death and hidden 
from all human comprehension. 

Looking up, he saw Doctor Arnold's face, grown very pale, 
bending over the brink of the ravine. Close by him stood Prior, 
with a lantern in his hand. He lowered it as far as he could 
reach, crying, in a trembling voice — 

“ Who is that with you, sir 

“ It is Cumberland — that is, young Mr. Irrian," Harold said. 

This reply moved Doctor Arnold greatly, and he cried ouc in 
a changed voice — 

“Hold him ! Do not let him go, Olver — I must come down 
to you at once ! Prior, show me a way by which I can reach 
him." 

“ Down here, sir, to the right ; the way is tolerably easy if you 
can hold on to the bushes and rocks." 

Harold saw him turn away to follow Prior, then saw that 
Carrie and her lover held him by the arm ; both said a few words 
to him in low eager tones. 

“ Yes, yes," he answered, “ when I have spoken to young 
Irrian." 

“ Then Tom and I will continue the search alone !" Carrie cried 
angrily. 

“ Do not stop me !" returned Doctor Arnold. “ It is of vital 
importance I should speak to this young man 1" 

He hurried onwards ; and now Carrie came to the edge of the 
gorge, and, leaning over dangerously, while her lover held her to 
ensure her safety, she said, in a clear voice — 

“Mr. Olver, can you hear me?" — “Yes, perfectly." 

“ Do you knew we are out searching for Estrild ? She is 
lost !" 

“ Lost I" exclaimed Harold ; and in his pained surprise he re- 
linquished his hold of Cumberland, whom he had held by the 
wrist from the moment Doctor Arnold had cried out in such 
sharp accents of warning that he was not to let him go. 

The young man himself had stood quietly in the same dazed 
way, not uttering a word through all the cries and questions 
sounding around him. But now, being released from Harold's 
grasp, he went onwards up the ravine, walking like a man in his 


FROM THE OTHER SIDB^ 


403 


sleep, heedless of his path, and yet escaping the stumbling-blocks 
in his way. So going, he was met by Doctor Arnold and Prior ; 
and the former, grasping his arm, led him back passively to the 
spot where Mr. Irrian lay and Harold stood listening to Carriers 
story. 

“ If she has been overtaken on the beach by the tide, we can- 
not find her,^^ she was saying, with a sob, “ until the sea has gone 
back ; and even then ” 

Giver, come with me,^^ interposed Doctor Arnold. “I have 
questions to put to young Irrian.’^ 

Harold turned on him in an amazed way. 

‘‘ Surely your questions can wait he said, in a rage of 
anguish. “Nothing can be done for the dead ; I am going to 
search for the living.'* 

“For Heaven’s sake, Giver, listen to me ere it be too late * 
The girl is in peril of death — help me to save her !’* 

Again Harold turned, gazing into Doctor Aiiold’s face in an 
agony of bewilderment ; and the look that met him made him 
yield. 

“Is it of Estrild’s danger you mean to question this man V 

“ Yes, yes ; hold him fast !” 

With intense repugnance Harold once more seized Cumber- 
land’s wrist. All the old feelings of suspicion and of horror 
were again flooding his mind. He was the slayer of Tristram, 
perhaps the murderer of Estrild also. Mary Armstrong and the 
old promise to her were all swept away as he held Cumberland 
with a clutch of iron. 

“ Softly, softly, Giver ! Can’t you see the young man is not 
in his normal state ? He is unconscious — he is hypnotised.’* 

“ Hypnotised ?’* repeated Harold. 

“Yes ; he is like a somnambulist or a man mesmerised — call it 
what you will !** 

“ Then wake him, Arnold, if you have the power, and for dear 
life’s sake let us hear the truth ! Great Heaven, how we lose 
time ! Where is Estrild ?’* 

Harold put this question to the unhappy young man in hia 
grasp and looked into his dazed eyes unpityingly. 

“ Softly, Giver !** Doctor Arnold cried again. “To wake him 
would be fatal to our purpose ; he would be oblivious to all that 
has happened while in his state of trance.” 

“ Is he mad, or are you mad. Doctor Arnold, that you hold 


404 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


me here to listen to your theories, when the dearest life on earth 
is perishing ? Let me pass 

Harold would have flung Cumberland from him and thrust 
Doctor Arnold aside, but for the quiet question — 

“ Where will you go. Giver ? Do you not know that every 
nook and glade of the park has been searched, and the village, 
and the road round ? My only hope lay in the approach of Mr. 
Irrian ; he is dead, but I hold his son, and he shall speak.’' And 
now he pressed his hand on Cumberland’s forehead, saying gently, 
‘‘You have been on a journey, lad V* 

“ Yes.” 

“You tried to eseape that hand — and Doctor Arnold pointed 
to the cold hand lying in its deathly whiteness on the rock be- 
side him. 

“Yes; I fled to the sea, but it was too late. Before I left 
Trame his hand had passed over brain and heart ; it was in my 
spirit now, and I went where it pointed.” 

With a heavy sigh Cumberland ceased to speak, and then sud- 
denly flung himself on his knees by his father’s side. Again 
Harold would have seized him, but, with a gesture for silence, 
Doctor Arnold waved him back. He was right, for Cumberland 
began to speak again, addressing Mr. Irrian as though he were 
in lifa 

“ Have I failed, father, or has your hand lost its skill ? Oh, 
it was heavy on me — it lay like ice on my heart ! And will you 
keep your promise? Is this the last time that horrible touch 
shall chill my blood, and change me from my true self into a 
creature without will, without thought, without conscience ? Ah, 
yes — I remember your words ! It will pass — all pass — and no 
recollection of this will blacken my soul when I awake to my 
own life. But do you know there is a dark shadow stays with 
nie — a shape indefinable and dreadful that haunts me when I 
return to sense — a something that I loathe, though I strive to 
grasp and understand it ? Bather, as I live I will leave your 
home, your name, your presence for ever when my spirit returns 
to me !” He half rose with a shudder as of fear or hate, but in 
rising touched his father’s dead hand, and sank upon his knees 
again, talking now rapidly — “Yes, yes, I confess it — I tried to 
escape. I would have gone to the coast of France, but the Cap- 
tain declared I ordered him to sail to Langarth. I half awoke 
when I saw those dark cliffs again, and I commanded him to let 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


405 


QO one come aboard and no one go ashore. It did not avail — • 
your hand was on me. I rowed ashore alone ; and when 1 would 
have gone back, seeking again to flee, you had taken the boat 
away. Then I hid in a cave ; I plunged into deep darkness, say- 
ing, ‘ Surely here I shall find a refuge till this tyranny is past !' 
But it was stronger — stronger than ever; and when she went by 
— the last of the race cursed by the dead hand — then I knew 
that she must die.” 

White with wrath and fear, Harold started forward, but Doc- 
tor Arnold caught him by the arm and held him back by main 
force, imploring silence by a whispered warning. But the com- 
motion had distracted Cumberland’s attention; he looked up, 
still with that strange fixed expression, and seemed to listen as 
if for some expected sound. 

“The whistle broke through a roar of waves; I answered, 
but I had not obeyed,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper, 
as though fearing his dead father would hear his words. 
“ No, I could not — she was so beautiful, so innocent. The 
light shone upon her as she passed my hiding-place ; and I — 
yes, I fled again. I rushed onward through thick darkness 
till I reached a ladder, and, when 1 had mounted it, I drew it 
up to put a barrier between her and me, for I could not hurt 
her. Oh, father, you wring my heart — I could not ! So she 
is safe within the cave, and you — oh, my father, I have killed 
you !” With a cry as if his heart was breaking, Cumberland 
fell forward with his head on Mr. Irrian’s breast, and, save 
for a choking sob, he lay there as still as though himself bereft 
of life. 

Doctor Arnold released his hold of Harold’s arm. 

“ This is a pitiful case indeed,” he said — “ the strangest, sor- 
rowful lest case of hypnotism that has ever come across my ex- 
perience. Night after night that man stole to his son’s room 
and mesmerised him in sleep ; but who put him into the hypnotic 
state ? Ah, there lies the mystery that can never be fathomed !’* 

All his interest lay with his strange patient ; he had forgotten 
Estrild till he perceived that Harold, not listening to him, was 
speaking with pale lips to Prior, and both their faces wore an 
expression of horror. 

“ What ails you \ he asked. “ You have heard the girl is safe 
— safe within some cave — a place you know, doubtless.” 


406 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


“ Safe !” repeated Prior. “ If she be there, sir, she is dead by 
this time — drowned 1 

BTarold iiiteriupted him with an imploring cry to follow him, 
for he was already at a distance, making his way with desperate 
speed over tlie rocks and boulders that lay in the path. Prior, 
with eyes full of despair, followed him quickly. Doctor Arnold 
was left alone in the dark glen with the dead man and his son. 
Harold rushed onwards, sometimes falling over a rock, but, 
heedless of pain— not even feeling it^ — rising again to redouble 
his efforts. The ravine itself ended only at the sea with an 
abrupt rent in the great cliff ; and hear it w^as that the stream — 
as Harold remembered — rushed over it in a wild waterfall It 
was dry now. 

Harold stood a moment in bitter despair ; this proof of PrioPs 
assertion, th^it during a great storm in the past winter the rivulet 
had sunk into the cave and found a new way to the sea, par- 
alysed him with fear. As Prior reached him, he seized him by 
the arm in agony. 

“The ladder. Prior — where is the ladder? Oh, the time lost 
— the time lost with those men ! Why did I not break away 
from them ?’ ^ 

“ H^is best as it is, sir,” said Prior. “ You know where to 
look now. And as IVe been coining up the rift Pve took heart, 
for youVe beat the Black Rider, and 1 feel sure Miss Estrild is 
safe.” 

Down on the ground, groping here and there besides big rocks 
and beneath thorn and furze, both had been searching as they 
spoke. The moon had risen high and shed a soft light upon 
them, gleams of light came tremblingly from the troubled sea — 
-these helped them in their search of agony. 

“It is here !” said Harold suddenly. “Help me, Prior !” 

His voice had sunk to a whisper — all his anguish, ail his dread 
had clutched him by the throat. He had to face now the horror 
that he feared, and its ghastly reality. The beating of his heart 
stayed the breath upon his lips as with grip of iron he lowered 
the ladder through the fissure in the cave’s roof down into its 
dim darkness. It touched w^ater, and for an instant there was 
risk, through the flood’s strength, of its floating away out of their 
hands ; but by main force they held it down. Both men grew 
deadly pale as they fought thus with the death beneath. 


FHOM THE pT^EB SIDE. 


407 


“ Steady, Prior 1 Press the ladder dpwp with all your strergth 
as I descend/^ 

Prior strove to obey, but the ladder had no grip on the rock 
beneath, and the water, rushing around and beneath, constancy 
swayed it to and fro. It was impossible to gain a footing on it. 

“ I shall leap down !” Harold said, stripping off his coat as he 
spoke. 

“ Stay sir, for pity’s sake ! Here is help at hand !’' 

But Harold had no thought of staying. He got up on the sway 
ing ladder, and in a moment had disappeared within the dark- 
ness of the cavern. 

Prior, holding the ladder witdi both hands, bent over the 
brink ; but the appalling din that met him made him draw back, 
and his heart quivered and his hands shook. 

“She cannot be there in life,” he whispered; “and in finding 
her dead he too will loose his life.” He spoke with shaking 
lips, looking up at the little crowd around him, whose approach 
he had seen. 

It was Tom and Carrie ; Pleasance was with them, and three 
or four men-servants ; and in a moment strong hands were on the 
ladder and Tom was over the edge and down in the darkness. 

Carrie’s eyes gleamed through her tears. 

“ He is always brave— always ready. Do not fear !” she said, 
clinging to Pleasance. “ I am sure all is well.” 

Pleasance was very pale. She had r«turned with the mes- 
senger whom Carrie had sent to her, and it was from her they 
learned that Estrild had entered the cave with Daniel ; but they 
fancied she must long since have left it, yet they were come in 
a sort of forlorn hope to search for her. 

“ Prior, are you sure she is there I” Pleasance said, with white 
lips. 

A shout from below answered her. It was a cry for help. 

One of the men descended the ladder, and as he disappeared 
all hearts went with him, and breath waa held on parted lips. 

Save for the dull roar of the pent-up waves, which, like the 
horrible journey of an earthquake, sent the roll of their power 
upwards through the trembling ground, not a aound broke the 
quivering silence of heart and lip. 

Another moment or two of terrible suspense, and then, 
drenched and pale, Tom’s face and figure appeared above the 
brink. He did not speak, but throwing himself prone on the 


408 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


rocks, he stretched his arms downwards and grasped a hand that 
needed help. One instant more and Harold, bearing Estrild in 
his arms, rose from the depth and din, and stood safe beneath 
the free sky. The figure he bore looked so pale, so lifeless, so 
forlorn that no one dared to speak ; a dreadful thought choked 
utterance. 

“Do not fear!” Harold said, smoothing the long wet hair 
back from Estrild’s forehead. “ She is only faint. I found her 
singing a little hymn learnt in her childhood ; I might never have 
found her but for that. Her dear voice reached me as I fought 
through the water. Oh, she' has had courage ! It was only 
when I held her — when she felt my arms around her — that she 
fainted. 

He held her closely, he bent his face to hers and kissed her. 
A long tress of her hair swept tears away that, man as he was, 
trembled on his eyelids. 

As his kiss fell on her white cheek the men’s hearts swelled, 
and a cheer broke from th<?ir lips that rang down the ravine and 
startled the stillness of the two watchers by the dead. 


CHAPTER LV, 

There is no sunshine without shadow, and the shadow that 
fell on Harold was the thought of Mary Armstrong. Sending 
men on before him to the gorge, he waited only to see Estrild 
tended carefully by her cousin and Carrie, and then he hurried 
back to the ravine to rejoin Doctor Arnold. He could think of 
Cumberland with pitying wonder, with bewildered curiosity, and 
with the hope that, freed from the strange and dreadful power that 
had so cruelly held and influenced him, he and Mary might yet 
be happy. 

On his way he met the bearers carrying Mr. Irrian to Lan- 
garth. He stopped an instant to look down upon his face. A 
solemn awe filled his soul as he looked ; a sense of the inexplic- 
al)le mystery which linked this man with the house whither 
strangers’ hand were now taking him darkened his mind with 
thoughts of the dreadful unseen powers which environ us, and at 
times can seize possession of our faculties, and cause us to work 
their will, and not our own. Was he indeed haunted ; and was 


PROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


409 


the man who rode on his dreaded message of death not the true 
Mr. Irrian, who had generously saved Estrild and the Yentxirey 
but only the human vehicle by which a cruel spirit worked out a 
long-wrought vengeance ? 

Harold glanced from the pale face of the dead to the star- 
studded sky above him, and felt that, as in the vast expanse of 
the great universe there were transcended truths beyond his ken, 
so on this earth, within the radius, of the limited human vision, 
there lay mysteries which the mind could not unravel. Was 
Mr. Irrian at peace f The expression of his face had greatly 
changed ; it was calm and beautiful. 

Harold waved silently to the man to go on with their burden, 
while with a sigh of relief he continued his hurried walk to the 
ravine. He entered it by an easy descent on the side farthest 
from the sea, and at an abrupt turn was met suddenly by Doctor 
Arnold, 

“ I have come to meet you,” he said, “ to give vou a word of 
warning. I have partially restored young Iruan from the 
hypnotic state, and I must tell you that when he has completely 
recovered he will know nothing of what occurred to him during 
that state.” 

“ Is that possible ?” asked Harold. 

“ It is a fact well known to medical men and to others who 
have witnessed such cases. A person hypnotised may be said to 
possess two individualities, in which are often developed very 
opposite characters and faculties ; and one individual is totally 
unconscious of the acts and feelings of the other.” 

So you mean that when restored to himself young Irrian 
will be ignorant of all that has happened since the terrible hand 
was passed over him % He will not be aware even of his father’s 
death V 

“ He will be totally unconscious of it ; his mind will be a blank 
with regard to ail the period of time since he quitted Trame ; he 
will take up his life from the evening you last saw him there. 
You perceive in this my reason for warning you. I feared you 
might express surprise and argue with him ; I feared you might 
speak of his father’s death too abruptly. It must be broken to 
him gently ; we must be very careful — his nerves are highly 
strung.” 

‘‘ I leave it all to you, Arnold. But I must say one word for 
myself. I cannot rid my own nerves of the repulsion and horror 


410 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


that I feel. Innocent or guilty, this young man would have 
caused Estrild^s death — a slow torturing death — but for the 
Providence that took his father^s life and thus saved hers. I 
believe that by his hand Tristram died. I cannot ask Estrild to 
meet him — T cannot let her invite him to her house, although his 
father lies there ; he must go to the inn.^’ 

“ He shall go to his yacht to-morrow ; I shall send him for a 
long sea- voyage.” 

They had walked on in talking, and came close now upon the 
lonely figure of young Irrian. He stood with his elbow leaning 
on a rock and the moonlight falling on his blond head, his fair 
youthful face. There was something inexpressibly forlorn in his 
aspect — something so touching, so worthy of pity in the thought 
that, gay, young, happy as he would be, his hand had been used 
to deal death, to make desolate the lives of others, and to wreck 
his own should the veil ever be lifted that hid these things from 
him, that, as he gazed on him, Harold’s resentment fell. Com- 
passion took its place, and he stood silent while Doctor Arnold 
bent ever the young passive figure, smoothing his forehead often 
with soothing hand. Suddenly he brushed away the touch im- 
patiently, saying, in his old gay voice — 

“ What are you doing. Doctor ? I believe you have been 
putting me to sleep. I feel as though I had slept long and had 
been walking in a dream. Yes, I surely have 1 What am I 
doing here ? What trick have you two been playing on me ? 
Olver, is this your mystification ?” He gazed around him in a 
bewildered way, and passed his hands across his still half- dazed 
eyes. “ This is the strangest, wildest place I ever saw. It is 
like an Indian pass. I did not know there was such a place 
near Trdme. In what direction does Trame lie ? J am not well ; 
I must get home.” 

“ Trame is a long way off, Cumberland,” said Harold, address- 
ing him by the old best-known name. 

“Yes, yes ; I am always ‘ Cumberland ’ to you. But you have 
not answered me. How did I get here to this outlandish place ? 
It is night. Have I been walking in my sleep, and have you 
two followed me?” 

“Yes, you have been sleeping,” said Doctor Arnold, putting 
his fingers on Ins wrist, “and you are only half awake now, and 
your pulse is hi^h. You must come with me and go to rest.” 

“No, no!” returned Cumberland, wrenching his wrist from 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


411 


the Doctor’s grasp, and his face flushed suddenly. “ I must — I 
will know first what has happened. Only an hour ago I wished 
you good night at Trame, and now I am here, and I see you 
here, and with faces sad as death. You are treating me as if I 
were a child. Do you think I cannot bear ill news like a man V* 
He turned in speaking, and saw the sea ; a change came over 
his face — it grew pale to ghastliness. “ I am not near Trame,” 
he said ; “ and I knew now what has happened. Some one is 
dead !” 

“ You are right, Cumberland,” returned Harold, in deep pity. 
* A sad death has occurred here, close by us through an acci- 
dent ” 

“ Stay !” cried Cumberland, shuddering. “ Do not tell me — do 
not explain — I cannot bear it I There is a clond of horror on 
brain, and I see and feel things too dimly to understand them.” 
He looked down on his hands, and then suddenly dashed his 
right hand cruelly against a rock, making blood stream from the 
bruised flesh. “ Such things — such cruel things hands can do !” 
he said in a low voice. “Was I not ?ight in India in striving 
to die? Olver, we .are haunted — we Irrians — a fiend possesses us 
at times.” 

“ I think you had better leave us,” whispered Doctor Arnold 
to Harold. “ I can manage him best alone. You agitate him, 
you recall half-formed memories. I fear I have been imprudent 

in rousing him from his trance ; I must endeavor now ” He 

stopped, for Cumberland touched him on the shoulder and point- 
ed out to sea, 

“ I wish you would tell me where we are !” he said irritably. 
“ I have a dim memory of the bay. Yes, I was here in the Alert 
three years ago.” He spoke very slowly, his voice trembled and 
fell, his face grew wan as a man’s in deadly sickness. “ And 
you told me there was an accident, and some one dead,” he con- 
tinued. “ Well, I can bear to hear it now, for it will never 
happen again — never ! Good-bye, Olver ! You and I were 
friends once — that was in India long ago. You will not save 
my life again,” he added, holding out his hand with a wistful 
smile. 

Harold could not refuse the outstretched hand ; he wrung it 
and turned away sorrowfully. 

“ Tell him now— it is best to tell him that it is his father who 
has perished,” Harold said in a low voice to Doctor Arnold, as 


412 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


the latter accompanied him a few steps down the gorge. “ And, 
when you have broken the truth to him, take him down quietly 
to the village inn.” 

“ I will do so at once,” returned the Doctor ; “ but I cannot 
follow your other advice. I will, if possible, give him a night’s 
rest first. In his present state I dread the result of such news.” 

“You must act according to your own judgment,” Harold 
answered ; “ but I confess mine does not agree with yours. I 
believe the result would be good.” 

They parted with this, and, as Harold returned to Langarth, 
he felt more and more assured that he was right. His experi- 
ence with Cumberland in India gave him an uneasy feeling of 
foreboding. He could not forget how the dim memory of the 
past, groping beneath the shadow of some haunting horror, had 
made him seek passionately for death. But later on in that 
eventful night he felt relieved when a note reached him from 
Doctor Arnold, saying that his patient was sleeping tranqilly, 
and he should remain at the inn to watch him. He added that 
he was writing to Mary tS apprise her of Mr. Irrian’s death, and 
to entreat her to join them at once. 

“ If Mary comes, all will be well with Cumberland,” Harold 
said hopefully. 

But the morning brought strange news. Cumberland was 
missing ! He had fled while Doctor Arnord, reassured by his 
apparent calm, had snatched an hour’s sleep. The country was 
scoured and searched in vain, and at last only one hope was left. 
The yacht in the bay had disappeared. Was it not possible that 
by some means the unhappy son of Mr. Irrian had reached her, 
and had set sail in the darkness, fleeing from the hand that had 
touched his brain ? 

Yet even upon this hope a dread shadow fell. On the morn- 
ing of the second day of suspense Daniel returned from his sea- 
cruise, having intercepted the Curlew and changed her destina- 
tion to another port, and he had a strange story to tell. He had 
landed in a lonely bay, and here he met Michael, who had come 
thus far in his search for carts and horses. They walked home 
together, choosing a solitary wild cliflf path. Here, at the sud- 
den angle in the narrow precipitious road, they came upon a 
group of men, with hair and clothes dripping wet, standing 
motionless, and looking out to sea. They — Daniel and Michael 
— waited a moment, thinking the men would move to let them 


FROM THE OTHER SIDE. 


418 


pass, but they neither turned nor stirred. And just at the in- 
stant when Daniel was stepping forward to ask them to make 
way, there rose a voice from the sea, hailing the men by their 
names. As each man answered, he seemed to fade away over 
the cliff and sink into the darkness, where the surge sounded and 
the breakers fell. Then Michael and Daniel sank upon their 
knees, for they knew they were hearing the ‘‘ the calling of the 
dead,^^ and the drowned sailors were answering to their names. 

“ Leonard Irrian 1” cried the voice, coming softly to the ear 
like the fall of a spent wave. 

“ Here, father !” was the answer ; and a fair young face flitted 
by and vanished beyond the cliff. 

There was only one name more, and, as it was called out, and 
the drowned man turned one look inland ere he faded into the 
sea, Michael fell upon his face, clutching Daniel by the hand. 
When he rose, he was trembling from head to foot. He strove 
to speak, but his voice was gone, and many seconds passed ere he 
could utter a word. 

“ Uncle, I saw that last man in the schooner-yacht at Lan- 
garth. He is the one that gave me ill words when he ordered 
me to keep off. Till I saw him I thought we were in a dream 
like, or maybe ^twas some trick of the sea and the mist. Now I 
know better, and I shall never be the same man again.” 

“ You’ll be a wiser one, my son,” returned Daniel, in an awed 
voice. “ This is not the first time such things have come to me. 
That ship is wrecked, and all hands have perished. Let us press 
onwards.” 

The place wdiere the men had stood was empty, all the path 
was bare ; not a sound broke the night-stillness save the fall of 
the waves on the sands, as, whispering of death and the life to 
corpe, the two men went on their way. Upon the sea nothing 
was visible except the pale gleam of the moon and the phosphores- 
cent flash of light that followed the roll of the surf. 

This was the story Daniel brough to Langarth. 

Doctor Arnold, who believed in all wonders and all miracles 
that were rooted in science, had no faith in any outside his 
creed, not thinking that these also might belong to the mighty 
realm of truth, though just beyond the circle his ken had reach- 
ed. Yet the story oppressed his heart as it did the others’, and 
they all redoubled their efforts to find Leonard Irrian till Mary 
came ; and then, at her sorrowful desire, they desisted. 


414 


FBOV T^B OTHER SIDB^ 


“ If he be living, he will come to me,^’ she said ; and in this 
hope they rested. 

On Mr. Irrian’s will been opened, it wa^ found he had made 
provision for the disappearance of his son ; in this case or in case 
of his death, all he possessed was left to Mary. He seemed also 
to have had a prescience of the manner of his death, for he 
desired that when he died, there he might be buried ; then fol- 
lowed the strange request that, if his death took place at Lan 
garth, he should be laid, if possible, in the grave of the Crusader 
— his ancestor who had died in the darkness, chains, and anguish 
of a Langarth dungeon. 

This request startled Estrild greatly, as did also the assertion 
that the Irrians were descended from the same stock as herself. 
Then Mary told her the traditions preserved at Trame, and, 
piecing these with the story filtering through the centuries at 
Langarth, they grew together into a history of cruelty, wrong, 
and wrath. 

Dividing the abysmal past from all its surge and froth, it ap- 
peared that the prisoner of tradition, before joining the Crusades, 
had been with the king in the North fighting the Scotch. Here 
he had loved a girl of the yoeman class, and, biding his real rank, 
wedded her under the name of Irrian, or, ‘‘ Wanderer, and had 
departed for the Holy War without divulging the secret of his 
marriage. Years passed ; news from Palestine was scant ; but 
pilgrims returning reported him dead, and his brother held his 
lands. Suddenly, alone and at night, the Crusader arrived at 
Langarth, claiming his home, and told the story of his marriage 
and that he had a son. 

This sealed his fate. The usurper might have born his re- 
turn, but could not endure the prospect of his own children 
being dispossessed of home and lands, and thrust into poverty 
without hope of inheritance. The Wanderer had ridden alone 
to Langarth ; none knew of his coming ; he was flung into a 
dungeon secretly, and the story of his wrongs, his sufierings, and 
his death floated in the air around Langarth with whispers of 
the vengence he had threatened and fortold. From the sea-coast, 
through days and nights of weariness, he had taken hoi’se from 
post to post, and, looking for love, had ridden alone to Langarth 
to find cruelty, suflering, and death. Well, again and again for 
ever he would take that lonely ride to Langarth and bring death 
with him. 


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“PAPA’S OWN GIRL 

By Marie Howland. 


The manuscript of this great American Kovel was 
submitted by the author to one of the ablest of our edi- 
torial critics, who, after a careful perusal, returned it with 
the following analysis of its rai'e excellence : 

“ As i think of them, the men, women and children of your story 
seem like actually living "beings, whom I have met and lived with, or 
perhaps may meet to-morrow. 

“ The least half of your novel is grander than anything GEORGE 
ELIOT ever wrote, I am not, in saying this, disparaging the first 
half of the story, but this last part is a new gos 2 ')el. TILE COUNT 
is a creation suggested by the best qualities of the best men you have 
known, THE SOCIAL PALACE, as you have painted it, is the 
heaven of humanity; and the best of it is, that it is a heaven capable of 
reeLlization, ******* ^ 

DAN^S return, and of his meeting with MIN, is indescribably pathetic j 
no one could read it with dry eyes, and the moral element involved is 
rrwre effective than in any dramatic situation in literature. With the 
true fidelity of the artist you have given perfect attention to your minor 
characters, ‘TOO 80 ON for example; and I admire the tact with 
which you bring over Mrs, FOREST into sympathy with the SOCIAL 
PALACE and WOMAN^S RIGHTS. This is true ART. Your 
novel throughout meets all the great questions of the day, even the finan- 
cial one, and it is the best translation of GODIN that could be given. 
You will find a PUBLISHER, be sure of that, and THE NOVEL 
WILL BE THE GREATEST LITERARY SENSATION OF 
THE TIME,^^ 

This powerfully written and artistic Kovel is to the social 
questions now convulsing the civilized world what ‘‘Uncle 
Tom’s Cabin was to the slavery agitation. 


One volume, 1 2mo, Lovell’s Library, No. 534, 
30 cents ; Cloth, 45 cents. 


JOHN W. LOVELL CO., Enblishers, 
14: and 10 Vesey Netv York, 


H. RIDER HAGGARD’S NOVELS. 


SHE : A HISTORY OF ADVENTURE. i 2 mo. Paper, 
20 cents. 

There are color, splendor, and passion everywhere ; action in abundance ; con- 
stant variety and absorbing interest. Mr. Haggard does not err on the side of 
niggardliness; he is only too affluent in description and ornament. . . . There is 

a largeness, a freshness, and a strength about him which are full of promise and 
encouragement, the more since he has placed himself so unmistakably on the roman- 
tic side of fiction ; that is, on the side of truth and permanent value. . . • He is 

already one of the foremost modern romance writers. — iV, K, World, 

It seems to me that Mr. Haggard has supplied to us in this book the complement 
of “ Dr. Jeckyl.” He has shown us what woman’s love for man really means. — The 
Journalist, 

One cannot too much applaud Mr. Haggard for his power in working up to a 
weird situation and holding the reader at the ghost-story pitch without ever abso- 
lutely^ entering the realm of the supernatural. . . . It is a story to be read at 

one sitting, not in weekly parts. But its sensationalism is fresh and stirring ; its 
philosophy is conveyed in pages that glow with fine images and charm the reader 
like the melodious verse of Swinburne. — N. Y, Times. 

One of the most peculiar, vivid, and absorbing stories we have read for a long 
time. — Boston Times. 

JESS. A Novel. l 2 mo. Paper, 20 cents. 

Mr. Haggard has a genius, not to say a great talent, for story-telling. . . . 

That he should have a large circle of readers in England and this country, where so 
many are trying to tell stories with no stories to tell, is a healthy sign, in that it 
shows that the love of fiction, pure and simple, is as strong as it was in the days of 
Dickens and Thackeray and Scott, the older days of Smollett and Fielding, and the 
old, old days of Le Sage and Cervantes. — N, Y, Mail and Express, 

This bare sketch of the story gives no conception of the beauty of the love- 
passages between Jess and Niel, or of the many fine touches interpolated by the 
author. — St. Louis Rejl>ublican, 

Another feast of South African life and marvel for those who revelled in She.” — 
Brooklyn Eagle, 

The story has special and novel Interest for the spirited reproduction of life, char- 
acter, scenes, and incidents peculiar to the Transvaal. — Boston Advertiser, 

Mr. Haggard is remarkable for his fertility of Invention. . . . The story, Ilka 

the rest of his stories, is full of romance, movement, action, color, passion. “ Jess” 
is to be commended because it is what it pretends to be — a story. — Philadeljfhia 
Tiittes, 

KING SOUOMON’S MINES. A Novel. i 2 mo. Paper, 
20 cents. 

Few stories of the season are more exciting than this, for It contains an account 
of the discovery of the legendary mines of King Solomon in South Africa. The 
style is quaint and realistic throughout, and the adventures of the explorers in the 
land of the Kukuana are full of stirring incidents. The characters, too, are vigor- 
ously drawn. — News and Courier, Charleston. 

This novel has achieved a wonderful popularity. It is one of the best selling 
books of the season, and it deserves its great success. — Troy Daily Press, 

THE WITCH’S HEAD. A Novel. i 2 mo. Paper, 20 cents. 
DAWN. A Novel. i 2 mo. Paper, 20 cents. 

Published by JOHN W. LOYELL COMPANY, New York. 

A ny oj the above works sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part oj the 
United States or Canada, on receipt oJ the price. 




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